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“Do you hate me, Nico?’’ she asked 



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OBLIGATIONS 

BY ELIZABETH YORK MILLER 





PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO. 
NEW YORK : : AND : : LONDON 





Copyright, 1924, by 
The Centuey Co. ^ 


Copyright, 1923, by 
Frank A. MuNssr Co. 



.oo 

PKINTBD IN U. S. A. 


/ A 

© cr 0 0 6 61 ^ * 



With love and sincere devotion 
this story is dedicated to 
the memory of my father 

MERWIN LESLIE YORK 
and to my mother 

ELIZABETH DE BINDER YORK 


V. 



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OBLIGATIONS 




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I 






OBLIGATIONS 


CHAPTER I 

M any years ago when the city of Little Rock, 
Arkansas, was neither so big nor so flourishing 
as it is now, something occurred there which darkened 
the whole future of one of the parties concerned. Just 
a little girl aged seven, saddled in her tender infancy 
with an immense burden of guilt which, as time wore 
on, assumed monstrous proportions. It was a pity 
that fear kept her from taking anybody into her con¬ 
fidence. The affair happened thus: 

The child’s name was Virginia Montmorency 
O’Dare, and she lived with her father and mother in a 
small brown house on the outskirts of the town. Her 
parents were a very young couple—theirs had been a 
boy-and-girl marriage and in those early days they had 
a struggle to make ends meet. Malcolm O’Dare, re¬ 
cently qualified to practise law, had set up as an attor¬ 
ney in Little Rock, with his wife saving him the salary 
of a stenographer and clerk. Edith went into town 
with him every morning, leaving Virginia to the 
tender mercies of Sophie, a German servant-girl. 

3 


4 


OBLIGATIONS 


A porch ran across the front of the little brown 
house, and Virginia was supposed to play there with 
her toys, or at least not to venture beyond the gate. 
Sophie told her that if she disobeyed, the Gipsies 
would catch her and take her away. Virginia, how¬ 
ever, had an adventurous nature; and after a while 
the fear of Gipsies wore off, since there did not ap¬ 
pear to be any in the neighborhood. Sophie, a most in¬ 
dustrious young woman, was forever house-cleaning. 
Virginia always thought of her as washing windows, 
with her head tied up in a towel. When she was at 
her busiest she forgot to bother about Virginia, who 
for all she knew actually might have been stolen by 
the Gipsies. 

The street ended abruptly at the foot of a low hill, 
where there was a little gray church surrounded by 
old tombstones; and below rippled a brook banked on 
both sides with forget-me-nots. Beyond this was a 
meadow containing one cow and a cherry-tree with a 
swing. To whom the meadow, the cow, and the 
cherry-tree belonged, Virginia did not know, nor did 
she especially care. In Sophie’s diligent hours she 
sometimes slipped off there to play with other children; 
ragged, noisy little children from a neighborhood 
called the Ditch; children who went barefooted and 
possessed no pocket-handkerchiefs. 

In after years these children, with one exception, 
became shadow-figures in Virginia O’Dare’s memory. 
The one she had good cause to remember was Nicholas 


OBLIGATIONS 


■5 

Wayne, a tall, black-haired boy of twelve who bossed 
everybody and was regarded as a hero by his play¬ 
mates. Virginia, of no consequence in his life, adored 
him, and Nicholas made good use of her slavish de¬ 
votion. She was a sturdy, willing little thing, and 
he let her push him in the cherry-tree swing as much 
as ever she liked. There was an overhead bough 
that he could manage to kick when he was high 
enough. Only Nicholas could achieve this feat, and 
only Virginia was strong and patient enough to get 
him well started. Thus he tolerated her. She would 
take a long run, push him forward, and fly under 
him as the swing shot upward, then race around 
and repeat the performance. Such shouts and 
screams! 

“Higher, higher! Push harder. Jinny 1’^ 

And Virginia pushed and ran and got very hot 
and red in the face, stumbled down and scabbed her 
knees, scrambled up again and was after the flying 
figure in the swing before Nicholas could reproach 
her. Holes in the knees of her stockings—there 
would be something said about that by Sophie, who 
had the mending of them, but no matter. Let the 
Gipsies come. Who was afraid? 

So it went on, day after day, during the long sum¬ 
mer vacation, and no one but Virginia noticed that 
every time she swung Nicholas so high that he could 
kick the top branches, the bough of the cherry-tree 
creaked a warning protest. The old wood grew 


6 OBLIGATIONS 

weary of this strain. It was not going to stand it 
forever. 

Then the thing happened. 

It had begun as a perfect day. They were having 
a picnic in the meadow. Virginia had been very 
diplomatic about that at home, waiting until Sophie 
was deep in window-washing and the hour of noon 
approaching. Sophie hated to interrupt her work to 
cook Virginia’s midday meal. Sometimes she didn’t 
cook it, but gave her cold things to eat. 

“Sophie, can’t I just have some bread and jelly and 
cookies and take them to the meadow if I’m a good 
girl?” coaxed Virginia. 

Sophie debated. The meadow was quite close, and 
she was not entirely unaware that sometimes Vir¬ 
ginia played there. 

“Well—if you ’ll promise not to tell your mama,” 
she said finally. 

It must be recorded that Virginia glibly gave that 
promise. She went off joyfully with her lunch in 
a nice clean napkin, and it was such a very good lunch, 
indeed, compared with his own, that Nicholas Wayne 
gave her the pleasure of sharing it with him. In fact, 
he more than shared it. Of the six cookies—Sophie’s 
cookies were exceptional—^Virginia herself got but 
one; and Nicholas ate her hard-boiled egg right off 
when she offered it to him for politeness’ sake; and 
never—if judged by his appetite—could he have 
tasted such bread and jelly. Butter on the bread, as 


OBLIGATIONS 7 

well as jelly. Poor Nicholas! The one bright spot 
in Virginia’s after-life was in remembering how he 
had enjoyed her lunch. The other little ragamuffins 
were quite envious of him. 

Screaming and shouting, they played games, rac¬ 
ing like mad around the meadow, leaping the brook, 
and, of course, wading in it. Virginia took off her 
shoes and stockings and waded with the rest. In 
the end, they came back to the swing. 

Nicholas must be the first, and as usual he gave 
Virginia the honor of starting him. 

‘‘Higher, higher! Push harder. Jinny!” 

Virginia pattered madly on her little bare feet, push¬ 
ing with all her strength. 

“Higher, higher!” 

A monstrous push that took the whole of her breath 
and sent her staggering. Nicholas was kicking the top 
branches. 

And then ... it happened. 

Down he came, swing, giant bough, and all. There 
was a rending creak and groan from the old tree, 
and in a second Nicholas lay silent on the ground 
surrounded by a litter of leaves and branches. 

Virginia turned and stared at him. His face was 
deathly white; his eyes closed. There was something 
hideous and terrible about his black hair straggling 
across that marbled forehead. 

The other children stood silent, also staring. Then 
one of them pointed a finger at Virginia. 


8 OBLIGATIONS 

“He’s dead/' she said. “You did it. You killed 
Nicholas.” 

A tremor passed over the group. They wavered, 
separated, ran—flying across the meadow in all di¬ 
rections. No one was fleeter of foot than Virginia. 
She forgot her shoes and stockings and made for home 
just as fast as she could get there. 


CHAPTER II 


I T was nearly four o’clock, and Sophie was still 
cleaning windows. She sat on a sill with her back 
to the porch and polished vigorously. 

‘‘Ach, you have returned,” she remarked, catching 
a reflection of Virginia in the clean glass. “It is 
well. Go in the house and wash your face and hands. 
Your papa and mama will be home soon. Remem¬ 
ber, you are to say nothing about taking your lunch 
into the meadow.” 

Virginia crept around to the kitchen door, glad 
that Sophie had been too busy to notice her bare feet. 
That was a problem if you like, but she dared not 
go back to the meadow for her shoes and stockings. 
She went into the kitchen and washed her face and 
hands as bidden. Then she went up-stairs to the little 
room next her parents’ where she slept. From a 
drawer she took her best Sunday slippers and a pair 
of stockings and put them on, getting the seams of 
the stockings all crooked, and finding it very diffi¬ 
cult to button the straps of the slippers. 

Sophie began to fly through the house attending to 
odds and ends. She had a pan of baked beans and 
a rice pudding in the oven, and the table had to be 
laid for supper. 


9 


lO 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘^Oh, you dirty child! You Ve torn your dress. 
Now I shall have to put you on a clean one. Come 
here and let me brush your hair.” 

Virginia submitted meekly. It was very strange 
that Sophie still failed to notice her feet. 

''Now you sit on the steps and watch for your 
papa and mama. And don’t you make yourself dirty 
again. If you make yourself dirty the Gipsies will 
come and take you.” 

Virginia sat on the steps, her clean little hands 
folded in the lap of her clean little dress. Her curls 
still ached from Sophie’s hard brushing. Her eyes, 
smarting from the hurt of it, dwelt upon the street. 

It was not a particularly beautiful street. Opposite 
there were a few new wooden houses with building- 
lots in between advertised by for-sale boards; the 
roadway was unpaved, and a double file of anemic 
saplings marched with the sidewalks. At one corner 
the horse-car line came to an end, and at the other 
the town melted away into fields. Virginia’s street 
might have been the mother of all garden suburbs. 

But across the fields, on the further side of the big 
meadow with the brook and the cherry-tree, one came 
suddenly upon a really unpleasant part of the town, 
a district given over to rows of ill-conditioned houses 
with trodden, bad-smelling yards, negroes’ cabins, 
saloons on every corner, gray lines of washing per¬ 
petually hanging to dry, squalling babies, squabbling 


OBLIGATIONS 


II 


women, and drunken men. It was over there, in the 
Ditch as it was called, that Nicholas Wayne lived. 
Edith O’Dare would have been horrified had she 
known that her little Virginia had ever played with 
such children. 

Sometimes a policeman walked through Virginia’s 
street, and he shared with the Gipsies the honor of 
keeping her behavior as correct as was humanly possi¬ 
ble. Virginia was more afraid of him than of the 
Gipsies, for sometimes Sophie had pleaded with him 
on her behalf. 

‘‘Ach, Mr. Cullom, she’s been a good girl to-day. 
Don’t take her away to-day, will you?” 

And Mr. Cullom would nod gravely and say, well, 
not to-day he would n’t take her, but if ever she was 
naughty, why, just send for him. 

This afternoon Virginia watched his approach 
from the end of the car-line with a feeling of cer¬ 
tainty that her time had come. She was as cold as 
death itself, and her poor little heart beat so fast 
that it choked her. The policeman came along slowly, 
swinging his club by its strap, humming to himself. 
Virginia would have run in and hidden under the 
dining-room table but for the fact that quite sud¬ 
denly her legs seemed to have lost all power. 

Cullom looked over the fence and saw her sitting 
there—^just a prim, clean little girl waiting for her 
papa and mama—^but as his mind was occupied with 


12 


OBLIGATIONS 


something else, he did not even speak to her. He 
came abreast of the gate, passed it, and ambled on 
down the lane that opened into the street below the 
church. Beyond that lay the meadow with the 
cherry-tree, and there, no doubt, he would discover 
the corpse of Nicholas Wayne. Virginia crossed her¬ 
self, as she had seen Sophie do when they went some¬ 
times to the Grotto of Our Lady with its lovely 
blue and gold Madonna and hundreds of winking 
candles. 

From the other end of the street there now sounded 
the clop, clop of the horses pulling the car, and when 
the car came to a standstill, out got Malcolm and 
Edith O’Dare with their arms full of bundles, one of 
which was a little white puppy-dog. Virginia should 
have skipped to meet them, particularly when she saw 
the puppy, but she did not stir. They called and 
waved to her, and she waved back feebly, but she 
could not bring herself to move. 

“Jinny, Jinny—see what we ’ve got for you ? . . . 
Why, what’s the matter with her? Jinny darling, do 
you feel sick anywheres ? Something’s the matter 
with her, Malcolm. Her face is green. Jinny, dar¬ 
ling, tell mama what’s the matter. What have you 
been eating? Why, look, Malcolm, she’s got on her 
Sunday slippers. . . . Oh, my baby, don’t cry! Let 
papa carry you up-stairs. Where Sophie ? Sophie, 
come here! Something’s the matter with Jinny. 


OBLIGATIONS 13 

She's got her Sunday slippers on. How did that 
happen ?" 

'T'm sick all over—a// overT wailed Virginia. 
*T want to go to bed. The policeman's going to take 
me away. Don’t let him take me away.” 

Edith O’Dare’s lips tightened. 

^There!” she said. “That girl has frightened her. 
Poor little Jinny! The policeman’s not going to get 
you, darling. He would n’t think of such a thing. 
He only takes big, naughty men; not good little girls. 
Not everf^ 

Malcolm gathered up his daughter. 

“She’s cold,” he said to his wife. “I think per¬ 
haps we’d better—” 

“Yes. Sophie!” 

Sophie appeared, looking a little scared. 

“Sophie, go at once for the doctor. Jinny’s eaten 
something that has n’t agreed with her.” 

They carried poor Virginia up to bed, and the 
doctor came. She was ill for weeks, and the doctor 
said it was brain-fever. Edith O’Dare went no 
more to her husband’s office; and Sophie, suspected of 
being the cause of this inexplicable seizure, was in¬ 
vited to seek another situation. 

Gradually the little invalid recovered her health, but 
she was never the same child again. Even the white 
puppy failed to rouse her to the activities of normal 
childhood. She would not venture beyond the gate 


14 


OBLIGATIONS 


unless her father and mother were with her, and the 
very sight of a policeman’s uniform would bring on 
a convulsion. 

Through it all, one irritating mystery remained. 
They never found out what had become of Virginia’s 
shoes and stockings. 


CHAPTER III 


M alcolm O’DARE did not practise law for¬ 
ever in Little Rock. He was one of those 
useful, tactful young men of good appearance and 
education, who make invaluable private secretaries, 
and was first discovered in such a capacity by Douglas 
Perke, at that time senator for Arkansas. Senator 
Perke ran into young O’Dare one day in the county 
court-house, liked him, saw at a glance his special 
qualities, and offered him a job on the spot. It was 
not a career that Malcolm had planned for himself, 
but in this instance the office sought the man. The 
law business was slow, and the O’Dares were poor, 
so that it was really a temptation. 

“Oh, take it,” said Edith. “I should like to live in 
Washington. And ever since Jinny’s illness, I’ve 
been worried to death about her. A change may be 
just what she needs.” 

So they went to Washington, and perhaps the 
change did do Virginia good. She grew a little more 
robust and less timid. The senator for Arkansas in 
one way or another made a lot of money and died three 
years later. He left his private secretary ten thou¬ 
sand dollars, which in itself was a high recommenda- 
iS 


i6 


OBLIGATIONS 


tion; and Malcolm O’Dare now passed into the serv¬ 
ice of a famous man of letters, a gentleman of the 
old school who had once been an ambassador to 
France. In time this man also died, and he, too, 
remembered Malcolm in his will. Malcolm saved, 
invested, speculated in a guarded fashion. He became 
confidential secretary to the President, and, when the 
administration changed, was offered and accepted the 
office of postmaster of Washington. Before many 
years had passed he found himself modestly well-to- 
do, and the old Arkansas days, when Edith had been 
his stenographer, were seldom mentioned. Virginia, 
who remained an only child, was sent to an expen¬ 
sive boarding-school in Georgetown. 

Europe began to be spoken of, and one day Mal¬ 
colm came home to the charming house they had built 
in Chevy Chase and announced that he had been ap¬ 
pointed first secretary to the American embassy at the 
court of St. James’s. 

Virginia was then twenty-one and had long since 
finished with her boarding-school. Her father wanted 
her to go to college, but she had no particular ambi¬ 
tions in that direction. Her own desire was to be¬ 
come a trained nurse, but her parents would not con¬ 
sent. Edith, who was only nineteen years older than 
her daughter and a very smart, vivacious matron, saw 
no reason why Virginia should not make a good mar¬ 
riage. True, they were by no means rich as great 
wealth is counted, but Virginia’s face was a pretty 


OBLIGATIONS 


17 

good fortune in itself. She was so beautiful that even 
her own mother, used as she was to the girl, often ex¬ 
perienced a thrill at the sheer wonder of it. The 
yellow curls of infancy had turned to a rich old-gold 
with brown lights; her complexion was perfect, her 
eyes large and gray. Virginia was really a beauty, 
had been ‘‘discovered^’ by famous painters, and pro¬ 
posed to in her first season by a prince. To be sure, 
the prince was a Russian and had no money; but 
there it was, not a bad start at all for one so young 
and retiring. That was the trouble with Virginia, she 
was altogether too retiring. 

“Sometimes I think,’^ Edith would complain to her 
husband in the seclusion of their bedroom, “that 
Jinny is n’t ‘all there.’ I know it’s a dreadful thing 
to say, Malcolm—a dreadful thing to say of one’s own 
child—but I can’t help it. There was nothing the 
matter with her until she had that illness in Little 
Rock. Did n’t you notice how changed she was 
afterward?” 

Malcolm, who was very proud of his daughter, 
scoffed at these ideas. “Nonsense. Jinny’s quiet, if 
that’s what you mean, but she’s as smart as paint. 
London ’ll open its eyes, you bet, when it sees Jinny. 
Give ’em something to look at.” 

Nor had Edith any real fear that Virginia would 
not be a social success in London—if only it pleased 
Virginia to try. 

“I wish I knew what she wanted,” Edith said wist- 


i8 OBLIGATIONS 

fully. ‘T’m sure I was n’t so difficult when I was a 
young girl.” 

Malcolm sat on the arm of her chair and gave her 
a warm hug. They were such good friends, Edith 
and he, such lovers even after so many years of it, 
that sometimes Edith was secretly ashamed of their 
perfect compatibility. She never had anything to com¬ 
plain of in Malcolm. He was a model husband if ever 
there was one. He even made enough money to 
satisfy her. From the beginning they had been 
wrapped up in each other, truest helpmeets in every 
sense of the word; but of course Virginia, of neces¬ 
sity, obtruded into their lives. They both loved her 
dearly, and her father, in particular, was inordinately 
proud of her charming appearance and manners, but 
she was not a satisfactory daughter. In serious mo¬ 
ments, even Malcolm admitted that. 

“I expect,” he said, ‘‘that what our little Jinny 
really wants is a sweetheart. Only she probably 
does n’t know it.” 

“A sweetheart!” Edith laughed. “Why, she’s a 
nun. The boys are scared stiff of her. How Prince 
Rasdoul ever had the courage to ask her to marry 
him, I can’t imagine.” 

And this was true. The young men did fight shy 
of Virginia, and it looked very much as though the 
courageous Russian’s would remain the only scalp in 
her possession. Even his proposal had been in the 
nature of a misunderstanding. He had taken Vir- 


OBLIGATIONS 


19 


ginia’s per fervid interest in the Russian Red Cross, 
of which he was one of the promoters, as personal 
unto himself. She quickly disillusioned him. Those 
were the dark days of the war, and sometimes it 
looked to Malcolm and Edith as though fate were 
compelling them to give Virginia her way about tak¬ 
ing up nursing. Other girls were doing it; in fact, 
it was the thing to do. Why not Jinny? 

“But, somehow, I can’t bear the idea,” Edith con¬ 
fided to Mollie Shaw, her best friend and wife of an 
attache to the British embassy. These two had met 
at Mrs. Shaw’s house for a cup of tea in an interval 
of war work. ‘Tt’s all right for other girls, but not 
for Jinny.” 

“Why isn’t it right for her?” asked Mrs. Shaw, 
who privately thought that Virginia, aloof, matter-of- 
fact, and, above all, self-contained, would be very safe 
no matter what occupation she took up. Mrs. 
Shaw’s brother was one of those who had been per¬ 
manently chilled by Virginia’s arctic treatment; but 
there was a baronet cousin, a very handsome young 
fellow. Sir Nevill Davies by name, to whom Mollie 
Shaw felt convinced Virginia must succumb should 
ever the two of them meet. Poor Nevill was now 
fighting for his country, and perhaps Virginia and he 
never would meet, but now that the O’Dares were go¬ 
ing to London there was a chance; and Mollie felt that 
it would be a salutary thing for the haughty young 
woman to have one good look at Nevill and then, per- 


20 


OBLIGATIONS 


haps, perish for love. Not that Mrs. Shaw disliked 
Virginia. She told herself and she told Virginians 
mother that there never was a sweeter or more beau¬ 
tiful girl in the world. Only—and when Mrs. Shaw 
got that far she could not analyze her feelings further. 
She might not dislike Virginia, but neither could she 
honestly say that she liked her. And this setting up 
of any girl in such tragic times as being too good 
for or above the common work of all, rather annoyed 
her. 

Edith tried to explain. What she really did was to 
attempt an explanation of Virginia. Thousands of 
mothers have done the same with varying degrees of 
success. 

“Jinny was always a timid little thing after an ill¬ 
ness she had when she was seven,’^ said Virginia’s 
mother. “Until then she was, if anything, too dar¬ 
ing. I sometimes think it was my fault, Mollie— 
that terrible illness of hers. We were poor, and I 
used to help Malcolm in the office, and Jinny was 
left with a servant who frightened her about Gipsies 
and policemen. You know what beasts they can be. 
Well, the poor little thing had brain-fever, or some¬ 
thing of that sort, and afterward she was utterly 
changed. I feel that she’s not—not quite normal.” 

“Oh!” Mrs. Shaw gasped, mildly horrified. 

“Don’t run away with any silly ideas,” Edith said 
hurriedly. “Perhaps I’ve said too much—more than 


OBLIGATIONS 


21 


I really mean. What I mean is that she *s rather 
delicate and very sensitive and highly strung.’’ 

Mrs. Shaw tried not to look as she felt. How 
weary it was, listening to these mothers of daughters 
whose stories never varied, although the daughters 
frequently did. Tall, short, fat, thin, comely or other¬ 
wise, the description was always the same. A world 
filled with delicate, sensitive, and highly strung 
young women, it seemed. 

Mrs. Shaw cleared her throat a little aggressively. 

‘Well, if you want my advice, what Virginia needs 
is something to fill in her time.” (This differed from 
Malcolm O’Dare’s idea of his daughter’s require¬ 
ments.) “A girl like Virginia who doesn’t care for 
balls or parties or young men or—or anything as 
far as I can see except hospital work, ought to be al¬ 
lowed to do it. You ’ll have her taking the veil if 
you ’re not careful.” 

Edith looked hurt and finished her cup of tea 
quickly. 

“I must be going now—” 

‘T’m afraid you ’re offended. Edith dear, you 
know I would n’t—” 

“No, of course not. Only you don’t understand 
Jinny, and it seems rather hopeless trying to tell you.” 

“Do you understand her?” asked Mrs. Shaw. 

“Of course I do. I’m her mother.” 

The answer seemed conclusive enough. 


22 


OBLIGATIONS 


The object of this controversy had found life dif¬ 
ficult. She might be all that her mother said, delicate, 
sensitive, and highly strung, but the thing that bur¬ 
dened her beyond her strength was the memory of 
Nicholas Wayne. 

She never actually knew the conclusion of that acci¬ 
dent, but in her own mind there was no doubt at all 
about it. He came to her in dreams all through her 
childhood, reproaching her for his untimely end—tall, 
lanky, black-haired Nicholas, whom she had so adored, 
and whom she simply could not forget. She remem¬ 
bered his name and everything about him. The 
dreams were not always the same. Sometimes she 
saw him lying on the ground dead among the litter 
of leaves and branches; sometimes he was alive and 
they raced and played together. But always there was 
disaster at the end. In the dreams even his end 
varied, for she had visioned him as drowned, with 
herself holding his head under the water; as being 
pushed off a precipice by her; as choking to death 
over food she had given him. This consciousness of 
guilt, the belief that in some way she really had been 
responsible for the cherry-tree’s breaking, turned her 
to ice as the years wore on and womanhood dawned. 

There had been times when she tried to speak of it 
to her mother, but when actually about to pour out 
the miserable little story, she could not speak. The 
thing was locked in her heart. She knew it was there, 
could feel it heavy on her conscience, but she could 


OBLIGATIONS 


23 

not get it out. She would go to her grave carrying 
that burden. 

Yet Virginia had her bright, happy moments, many 
of them. She was uniformly sweet and cheerful, 
very fond of little children, very tender-hearted. She 
was a great help to her mother in the house and always 
seemed pathetically willing to do anything they wanted 
her to do. In her first season, she did go to dances 
and parties, and she sat to the portrait-painters who 
admired her beauty, and she was agreeable to other 
girls who tried to become her friends, and polite to 
the young men who voted her such an iceberg. She 
did all the things she ought to do; she made efforts 
to please. That was another trouble, watching Vir¬ 
ginia making efforts to enjoy herself. And the cu¬ 
rious thing about it was that the girls and the young 
men—despite what the latter said—were just waiting 
for her to show a gleam of real interest in them. 
They would have been all over her in a minute had 
she done so. For Virginia had a quite remarkable 
charm. She was mysterious. Her very detachment 
was intriguing. 

“Miss O’Dare—oh, yes, do you know her?” 

“Can’t say I know her, but we’ve met. That girl 
thinks she’s too good for any fellow on earth.” 

“Oh, so you’ve been wounded, too!” 

“Wounded, by Jove! Never got close enough for 
that, and don’t want to.” 

Then, if these were two young men talking, a sense 


24 


OBLIGATIONS 


of artificiality would creep into their conversation, 
stifling its sincerity. They would have liked to know 
Virginia better, perhaps would have enjoyed being 
wounded. The one man who had offered himself and 
been rejected told his sad story all over Washington. 

The Rumanian minister, a wise old soul who knew 
the world inside out and history from its earliest 
recorded pages down to the chaos of 1914, said that 
in his opinion Virginia O^Dare was a composite 
reincarnation of all those women who had ruled the 
earth at various times, either personally or vicariously. 
But he always added, ''She doesn’t know what she 
could do, and she would n’t if she did.” 

That was true enough. What the Rumanian min¬ 
ister did not know was that, except for the tragedy 
of a common little boy named Nicholas Wayne, Vir¬ 
ginia herself might have been a very commonplace 
young girl. Even, one ventures to assert, her phys¬ 
ical beauty would not have developed so emphatically. 
The painters had tried; but they had found the 
shadows in her gray eyes difficult and a little awe¬ 
inspiring, the secretive pathos of her smile baffling, 
the meek droop of her graceful carriage misleading. 

Yet not one of all who knew her—^there were none 
who knew her intimately—had the wit to realize that 
this girl, who kept her own counsel so foolishly and 
well, was a victim of tragedy. If they had remotely 
suspected it, unpleasant ideas would have come to 
mind. But there was nothing to suspect where Vir- 


OBLIGATIONS 


25 


ginia O’Dare was concerned. She had been as she 
was since the age of seven, a remote, lonely soul seek¬ 
ing the forgiveness and forgetfulness of a world that 
did not know the nature of her sin. 


CHAPTER IV 


E dith O^DARE found London delightful, in 
spite of the fact that the war, mercifully then 
drawing to its close, had made its mark upon the life 
of the great metropolis. Prices were high, food—■ 
the sort of food one wanted—difficult to obtain; the 
town was fearfully overcrowded; and a suitable flat 
or house resembled the elusive needle in a haystack. 

The O’Dares were not rich people, but they were 
comfortably off, and Edith was clever. She had pro¬ 
vided herself with good letters of introduction and 
Virginia with a fashionable wardrobe, and, through 
her friend Mollie Shaw’s friendly influence and Mal¬ 
colm’s position at the embassy, was soon launched in 
a sea of social enjoyment and good works. 

She bargain-hunted, and, being lucky, found a de¬ 
lightful house in South Audley Street, Mayfair seem¬ 
ing to her the only possible place of residence in Lon¬ 
don; and, accustomed as she was to the high rents of 
her own country, twenty-five guineas a week did not 
seem exorbitant. Needless to say, it was a furnished 
house belonging to a lady of title who kindly deeded 
over to Edith a competent staff of servants headed by 
the genuine thing in butlers. In Washington they had 
26 


OBLIGATIONS 


27 

only kept two maids, and the butler rather alarmed 
Malcolm, but Edith took to him like a flower to the 
sunshine. They could afford it all, including the but¬ 
ler, for a few years at least—until Virginia had made 
her great marriage. 

As Edith confided to Malcolm, she did n’t want him 
to think that she desired marriage with a foreigner, 
even with an Englishman, for Virginia. SHe merely 
hoped for a good marriage, a solidly satisfactory 
alliance in every way, and since London was more 
or less, geographically speaking, the center of the civi¬ 
lized world, they must take full advantage of their 
happy position. But in her heart Edith thought a 
great deal about Mollie Shaw’s cousin. Sir Nevill 
Davies. Although relying somewhat upon Mollie’s 
favorable description of this young man, Edith took 
the trouble to look him up for herself and made the 
pleasing discovery that his title was an old one and his 
fortune solidly substantial. Moreover, he was just 
the right age for Virginia, a year or so under thirty. 

About this time, Virginia made a discovery of her 
own. It came to her with a little shock that her par¬ 
ents, though unwilling to let her take up the only pro¬ 
fession that appealed to her, nevertheless wanted to get 
her off their hands. More than most married couples 
of their age, the O’Dares were devoted to each other. 
They had always been lovers, and they still liked to 
play at being in love; and it grew more and more em¬ 
barrassing for them to have their grown-up daughter's 


28 


OBLIGATIONS 


eyes perpetually appraising their tender, flirtatious 
ways. ‘‘Eyes too expressive to be blue, too lovely to 
be gray,” they always seemed to wonder a little at this 
romantic father and mother, as though it were difflcult 
to understand and approve. 

Edith was now forty and getting to be rather careful 
about herself. She had a boudoir paneled and lighted 
to suit her complexion, and she watched her hair and 
figure with unwearying vigil. Virginia was a burden 
on her mind, and mental worries bring wrinkles. 

What better than marriage for Virginia ? 

“See how happy your father and I are, darling.” 

Yes, they were happy, yet her mother’s remarks on 
that subject never failed to send a cool little shiver 
down Virginia’s spine. Marriage was not for her. 
But there were times when she caught herself wonder¬ 
ing what it would be like to fall in love, how people 
accomplished such a thing. All lovers, all married 
couples were not happy as her father and mother were. 
Virginia knew a girl who had been engaged three times, 
and there were plenty of women in her mother’s set 
who had been married twice or more and thought noth¬ 
ing whatever of it; they even talked about their several 
husbands, making comparisons that were invariably 
odious. 

It was disconcerting to discover that her parents 
really wanted her to get married, and that only through 
her marriage could they attain their perfect freedom. 

The war ended, and Nevill Davies was sent with the 


OBLIGATIONS 


29 


army of occupation to Germany, so that Virginia did 
not meet him that winter; but meanwhile Mrs. Shaw 
came home, and, as Nevill’s privileged cousin, she 
motored the O’Dares down to Deepshire, in Sussex, 
and showed them Davies Hall. 

It was a fine old place, shut up since the deaths of 
Nevill’s parents, but kept in spotless order by care¬ 
takers. They had lunch at Davies Hall, and Mrs. 
Shaw took great care that they should miss nothing of 
its beauties. Virginia came away with a confused 
impression of Elizabethan furniture, endless corridors, 
deer-parks, and conservatories. Also of game pie— 
a famous delicacy of the cook-housekeeper—^which 
gave her indigestion for two days and started a fit of 
melancholy brooding. 

As time went on and it came spring and Nevill’s re¬ 
turn to England was hoped for almost daily, Virginia 
began to realize that she had only one chance of escape 
from the firm matrimonial plot her mother was weav¬ 
ing. Sir Nevill Davies might not like her. Still, it 
was a pretty good chance. So far he had n’t been 
caught, and all the girls were ‘Taving mad” over him, 
according to Mollie Shaw, who was secretly just a little 
malicious about Edith’s pretensions where Virginia 
was concerned. 

It was in April that Nevill came home. 


CHAPTER V 


T he great event was not broken gently to Virginia. 

It was fired off at her at close range and caught 
her unprepared, 

Virginia had been painted that winter by Fedor 
Chiostro; and they were going, her mother and she, to 
a private exhibition of that great man's work, which 
included, of course, the portrait of Virginia. The 
girl herself had been a little appalled by Chiostro’s con¬ 
ception of her. Alone, of all the artists she had been 
begged to sit to, he seemed to have divined her secret. 
Virginia O'Dare, the radiantly young and beautiful 
child of society, had emerged from Chiostro’s hands 
a haunted, tormented soul with a story of suffering that 
spoke from her eyes and trembled on her lips. It was 
a wonderful portrait, and Edith O'Dare hated it and 
was very angry with Fedor Chiostro for making such a 
monstrosity of Virginia. Yet what could one say? 
Nothing. And what could one do except make a sort 
of joke of it behind Chiostro’s back? For he was so 
notoriously bad-tempered under adverse criticism that 
one seldom ventured to challenge his pictorial insults. 
It was such a great honor to be painted by him that 
one sighed and let it go, whatever happened. 

30 


OBLIGATIONS 


31 

But Virginia approved the portrait, although secretly 
it frightened her. She tried hard to recall how she 
might have betrayed herself to Chiostro. How had he 
discovered the shadow of Nicholas Wayne, which 
clouded her so heavily that every one could see there 
was something monstrous in her past? 

It was the usual fashionable picture show, the big 
studio on the Chelsea Embankment, the crush of smart 
women with their attendant dilettante men, the abund¬ 
ant tea furnished by a caterer, the artistes submerged 
wife playing timidly and reluctantly at hostess, the 
great man himself, shaggy-haired and amusing, making 
rather a fuss of Virginia and snubbing her mother 
violently. 

The tide ebbed and flowed, but there was always a 
crowd around Virginia’s portrait; and although it 
scarce savored of modesty, she was so drawn to it and 
fascinated by it herself that she came again and again 
to hover on the fringe, not so much to hear what people 
were saying as to gaze upon that stripped sad soul of 
hers that gloomed profoundly upon a care-free world. 

As she stood lost and spellbound a voice at her elbowi 
—the voice of a young man—broke into her reverie. 
Perhaps he was not speaking to her but to himself. 

‘‘By Jove, old Chiostro’s got a lot to answer for this 
time. There never was a girl like that this side of 
purgatory.” 

Virginia turned and looked at him, and a queer little 
thrill went over her, like the pulse of a locked stream 


OBLIGATIONS 


32 

when the ice breaks in the springtime. She did n’t at 
that moment think of him as handsome; she saw only 
the radiant warm sympathy in his screwed-up eyes for 
the tortured creature on the wall that was herself. 

“It’s true enough,” she said with an embarrassed 
laugh. “It’s the girl who has a lot to answer for, not 
Mr. Chiostro.” 

Then the young man looked at her and reddened 
slightly. 

“Why, it’s you!” 

“And don’t you think it’s like me ?” 

“Yes, abominably so. It’s you all right. But 
please forgive me—” 

“You needn’t apologize. Everybody is being so 
nice and comforting about it that really it’s refreshing 
to hear the truth. Mr. Chiostro isn’t afraid of the 
truth, but sometimes I’m a desperate coward my¬ 
self.” 

What on earth had happened to Virginia? Indeed, 
the ice had broken and was tinkling merrily down the 
stream, and the stream was dancing and rippling and 
sparkling as though the calendar held no such disagree¬ 
able season as winter. 

Virginia and the young man migrated to a secluded 
window-seat and talked about her haunted soul—as 
Fedor Chiostro had seen it—^Virginia, mysterious, 
baffling, yet somehow longing to reveal herself, and the 
young man longing to lift the veil and see what the 


OBLIGATIONS 


33 


painter had seen, yet aware most of Virginia's tender 
young beauty, the pearly sheen of her white throat, 
the stiff waves of old-gold hair, the reluctant, half- 
wrung promise in her eyes. Here was something 
new, something almost divine to one just returned 
from the harsh unloveliness of war. 

There, in the window-seat, after half an hour, they 
were discovered by Mollie Shaw and Edith—who only 
a moment or two before had discovered her friend— 
and were made known to each other by name. They 
had n't thought about their names before. 

So this was the much-discussed Nevill Davies. 

Virginia drew in her breath with a sharp little catch 
and tried, in the confusion of thought, to recollect 
herself. But the old Virginia was gone forever, the 
Virginia who did not like young men, who was 
frightened of life and burdened by the immense 
tragedy of her childhood. For the first time she 
glimpsed what love might possibly be like; such bur¬ 
dens as hers could be shared, for one could tell one's 
lover, one's second self, things that mothers and 
fathers and the world at large—except the Chiostros 
—dreamed not of. 

Virginia was in love, hopelessly, painfully, furi¬ 
ously in love. Fortunately for her, so also was Sir 
Nevill Davies. They had lost not one precious mo¬ 
ment of that half-hour. 

Frankly, Nevill's cousin didn't altogether like it. 


34 


OBLIGATIONS 


Mrs. Shaw had run hand in glove with Edith’s ma¬ 
trimonial plans, had shown them Davies Hall and 
talked of Nevill constantly, but with something of 
the pride of a woman who displays her own jewels. 
At the back of Mollie Shaw’s mind there had always 
been the conviction that Nevill would be Virginia’s 
Waterloo. She had foreseen the breaking of the ice, 
but she hadn’t quite visualized Nevill’s following so 
ardently at the side of the freed stream. Nor had she 
faintly guessed what Virginia O’Dare in love would be 
like. 

There was some half-amiable squabbling which 
marred the parting of the young couple that after¬ 
noon. It went on around them and over their heads. 
They were not allowed to take care of themselves, 
at all. 

‘‘Mollie, you must bring Sir Nevill to dinner. Let 
me see, this is Tuesday. What are we doing on 
Thursday, Jinny? That’s the Mumfords’ dance, but 
we can easily—” 

“On Thursday I’m afraid we ’re engaged, Edith 
dear,” Mrs. Shaw cut in. “Nevill’s only staying with 
us for a few days, and he positively must go down 
to the Hall early next week, if everything is n’t to run 
to wrack and ruin. Of course our time’s horribly 
filled in.” 

Edith looked at her reproachfully. Hadn’t they 
planned, the two of them, that a match between Nevill 
and Virginia would be highly desirable? And here 


OBLIGATIONS 


35 

was Mollie failing her at the very first opportunity 
for furthering the scheme. 

The young people were only faintly aware of the 
friendly set-to being waged on their behalf. Edith 
came of an impulsive race, and perhaps her methods 
were a little too obvious. Mollie Shaw, on the other 
hand, saw the need of caution. It was n’t as though 
Virginia were a millionaire’s daughter, and in Mollie’s 
opinion she had certain defects of character which a 
wise woman ought to point out to any relative who 
might be in danger of taking a hard fall. It was all 
very puzzling to Mollie, who felt that she had been 
deceived by Virginia’s mother, but even more ruth¬ 
lessly by Virginia herself. 

Mrs. Shaw, though younger than Edith, was an 
older hand at diplomacy. She won the day and 
carried Neville off without a single thing’s having been 
arranged as regarded the future. Some time, next 
month, she hoped—but not Thursday nor even next 
week—it could be managed. 

Poor Edith was depressed that evening. Chiostro’s 
portrait had begun it, and Mollie’s stand-offishness 
finished it. But Virginia went home in a state of 
trance which no amount of depression on her mother’s 
part could penetrate; and Mrs. Shaw had reckoned 
entirely without Nevill. He might not be allowed to 
dine with Virginia and her family, or do anything 
else officially sanctioned, but there was nothing what¬ 
ever to prevent his ringing her up on the telephone 


OBLIGATIONS 


36 

and arranging a rendezvous in Hyde Park by the 
Achilles statue. And there was nothing to prevent 
Virginia’s falling in with his request. She did n’t 
think it even necessary to ask her mother’s permis¬ 
sion, but had she done so, it would have been granted. 


CHAPTER VI 


T hat was on Wednesday. On Thursday after¬ 
noon they went again, Virginia and Nevill, to 
Chiostro^s studio to have another look at her portrait, 
and Chiostro left them alone with tea for an hour. 
On Friday morning they rode in the Row at eight 
in the morning, lunched with Edith at Giro’s, and 
came home to tea. Nevill left just in time to rush 
into a change of clothes and join some party his 
cousin had planned. On Saturday the program of 
Friday repeated itself; and on Sunday Nevill came 
to lunch and met Malcolm, whom by this time he 
was secretly thinking of as his future father-in-law. 

It was quite plain to Edith that Mollie Shaw knew 
nothing of all this, and the anxious mother fluctuated 
between two emotions; one, relief that Virginia at 
last had taken to just the right sort of young man; 
the other, resentment against Mollie for behaving in 
such a peculiar fashion. She also experienced some 
slight annoyance that Sir Nevill Davies himself felt 
it necessary to keep his cousin in the dark. 

But Edith need not have blamed Nevill. He broke 
engagements Mollie had made for him right and left 
in order to see as much of Virginia as he could, and 
37 


38 OBLIGATIONS 

naturally he had to give his cousin better reasons than 
the true one. 

On Sunday afternoon Mrs. Shaw came in unex¬ 
pectedly to tea at the house in South Audley Street 
and caught him there, and they walked back together 
across the Green Park to her flat in Westminster. 

Mollie had a nice husband of her own of whom she 
was very fond; but after all a cousin is a cousin, 
particularly when so charming a young bachelor as 
Nevill. Mollie had been sweetness itself to Edith and 
Virginia that afternoon, and attempted a flirtation 
with Malcolm which so nearly came off that she knew 
she had aroused the ire of Malcolm’s wife, but she 
was very angry with Nevill. In her opinion he had 
fallen too easily to the lure of the young sphinx. 

As they walked along, she with her quick short 
steps to meet his lengthy stride, she looked up at 
him sidewise, wondering how to approach the painful 
subject of her disapproval. At that moment Nevill 
was infinitely dear and by the same token hateful to 
her. On the dear side she counted such items as 
his clear fine eyes that always screwed up a little 
when he was puzzled, his school-boy smile and not 
over-distinguished nose; and, on the hateful side, she 
could not endure a new swinging way of walking he 
had recently got into, nor the heightened color in his 
sunburned cheeks, nor the faint expression of self- 
satisfaction that hovered on his features. Nevill was 
dreaming, away on the wings of romance, and he 


OBLIGATIONS 


39 

flew over the ground as though covering some rich 
and secret heritage. 

‘'Oh, please don’t walk so fasti” Mollie exclaimed, 
breathless and angry. 

“Sorry. I did n’t realize—” 

“No, a man in love never thinks of anybody but 
himself—and the girl.” 

Nevill pulled in his stride. 

“So you've guessed it,” he said with a little laugh. 

**Guessed it! Good heavens! Guessed it!'" 

“I thought you liked her. What’s the matter, 
Mollie?” 

“Nothing very much is the matter with me,” Mollie 
replied, her voice shaking. “Only you’ve got a lot 
to learn about Virginia O’Dare. I suppose you know 
that Prince Rasdoul wanted to marry her—” 

“Never heard of the fellow,” Nevill said tolerantly. 
“I should n’t think he was the only one.” 

“Well, he was,” Mollie replied, in a tone of mystery 
and caution. “It was all over Washington. She led 
him on and then threw him down hard. And that’s 
what she ’ll do to you if you ’re not careful. The men 
were very shy of Virginia after that affair. Her own 
mother says there’s something queer about her.” 

“There is,” Nevill said slowly. He did n’t want to 
quarrel with Mollie, nor did he care to talk about 
Virginia with some one so utterly unsympathetic, 
“I think I like her because she’s different. I want to 
make her happy ... if she ’ll let me.” 


40 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘^OH, well!’^ Mollie gave a short vexed laugh. ‘T 
think she’s letting you, all right. They have n’t a 
great fortune, and her mother is simply wild to get 
her married, and Virginia knows that; so no doubt 
she ’ll marry you if you ask her.” 

‘T hope so,” said Nevill. ‘T’d prefer that to being 
thrown down hard, which you mentioned as a possi¬ 
bility a moment ago.” 

“Oh, Nevill, you must be thinking me an awful cat! 
But I ^m so fond of you—I can’t help it—and I do 
want you to be happy. I don’t believe—I honestly 
don’t believe—^that Virginia O’Dare has it in her to 
make any man happy. That’s how she strikes me. 
She’s cheerful and sweet-tempered and good and 
hasn’t a single fault of the modern girl, and yet— 
I can’t explain it, Nevill—^what I mean. It’s that 
queer withdrawn manner of hers, that look in her 
eyes—^well, Chiostro painted it. You saw for your¬ 
self. Dearest boy, if you marry her and she ruins 
your life in some way—oh, don’t ask me how; I don’t 
know! But if it happens, I shall never forgive my¬ 
self, never.” 

Nevill was not more conceited than most young 
men, but the wondering idea struck him that perhaps 
some of this was personal unto Mollie. Yet he did 
his cousin a slight injustice. She was not in love 
with him, and it was his happiness that she desired, 
and she was quite honest in what she thought and 
said about Virginia. That Nevill should slip so hap- 


OBLIGATIONS 


41 

pily into the power of that strange, mysterious girl, 
had suddenly become repellent to Mollie Shaw. 

“Oh, well,” he said, “aren't we taking a lot for 
granted? It scarcely seems fair to Miss O’Dare to 
discuss her like this. I haven’t a notion whether 
she’d marry me or not. We ’ll assume that either * 
way my fair young life is doomed.” 

It was plain enough to Mollie that she had n’t made 
the slightest impression on him. 

Yet it was in a sobered mood that he sought Vir¬ 
ginia the next day. Just a full week, now, that they 
had known each other, and reason would urge that 
it was not long enough for either of them to know 
their own minds; but reason plays so small and mean 
a part on the stage of love that it might just as well 
not be there at all; it is chiefly noted for its quick 
and mortified exits. 

Virginia was expecting Nevill, although Mrs. Shaw 
had contrived yesterday to prevent any definite ar¬ 
rangement as to their next meeting, and despite the 
fact that Nevill had been constantly reminding both 
her and himself that he really must go down to Davies 
Hall the first thing in the week. She was expecting 
him, although he hadn’t telephoned, or perhaps be¬ 
cause he had n’t. It had poured with rain in the 
early morning, so that any idea of riding was out 
of the question. Virginia herself was engaged for 
lunch, and that he knew. 

So at four o’clock she sat alone in the pretty little 


42 


OBLIGATIONS 


cedar-paneled room that her mother had turned over 
to her, and dreamed placidly, gently, untroubled by 
the memory of Nicholas Wayne for the first time in 
many years. She had on a soft white dress that 
clung graciously to her adorable lines; her hair was 
like a heavy, wonderfully fashioned crown of Tuscan 
gold; her lips held a new curve, a new mystery; and 
a new veil, lustrous and filmy, gave brilliance to her 
shadowed eyes. 

She was thinking to herself that ever)^hing was so 
new, a changed world, indeed, and that it really did n’t 
matter if she never saw Nevill Davies again, she 
would always bless him, always thank him, be eter¬ 
nally grateful, for this glimpse of something beyond 
and apart from herself that he had given her. At 
the same time, she knew she would see him again, 
soon—any moment, now. 

The door-bell rang, the feeling more than the actual 
sound of it carrying to the young dreamer in the 
Cedar Room. Toombe—the real thing in butlers as 
admired by Edith—came to inquire if Miss O’Dare 
was at home to Sir Nevill Davies. It was a slight 
affectation of office on his part that he made the 
inquiry. Miss O’Dare had n’t said that she was ex¬ 
pecting Sir Nevill; on the other hand, Toombe might 
have been guided by recent precedent. 

Just a week. Very well, what then? 

It seemed to Nevill and Virginia that they had 


OBLIGATIONS 


43 


been parted for a thousand years, although it was 
only yesterday that Mollie had carried him off and 
delivered her severe warning. 

Always they saw each other with new emotion and 
a new consciousness of complement. There was 
something robust and matter of fact in Nevill that 
Virginia urgently needed; something fay-like in her 
elusive delicacy that gripped and wrung his heart all 
over again when they came face to face, and checked 
yet hastened him at the same time. He knew he could 
not-—must not—rush and take her in his arms, yet 
there was always the little rush at the first, the glad 
assurance that they still liked each other, that she was 
as pleased as he was, that this satisfaction was not 
only important but precious, as much to her as to 
him, the joy of love exquisitely intensified because 
so wholly mutual. Their straightforward young pas¬ 
sion was unsullied by the stigma of doubt. 

But Nevill was Nevill, and of course he checked his 
impulse to rush at her. 

"‘Hello! You must be pretty well fed up with me 
by this time. Old Tombstones was n’t so sure you 
were in, and I had a panicky moment waiting until 
he found out.” 

But Virginia was much more direct. 

“You knew I’d be in,” she said. 

And then suddenly Nevill realized that introductory 
measures were a farce and might easily have been 


44 


OBLIGATIONS 


dispensed with from the very first. He took her in 
his arms, and they clung together in a rapturous mo¬ 
ment that could never be measured by time. 

‘^Virginia, my dearest, you do love me—you do 
love me! Say you do. Whisper it.” He bent his 
head and caught the sweet fragrance of her breath 
on his cheek. '1 was so afraid; I'm still terrified. 
Until you say you love me.” 

And Virginia whispered, ‘Wou know I do.” 

There was a wonderful hour. Outside, the April 
rain dashed against the windows in cold, spiteful 
little gusts, and gray twilight closed in; the logs in 
the grate threw out leaping flames that cast shadows 
on the walls and inclosed their little world in a circle 
of love and firelight. 

Virginia slipped to the floor and sat with her head 
against Nevill’s knee. It was such a delicious, breath¬ 
less spell, their fingers interlocked, silence falling in 
great warm patches, the glow of golden dreams en¬ 
shrouding them. 

'‘There’s something I want to tell you. It's about 
me, when I was a little girl,” Virginia said, when the 
wonderful hour had seemed to knit them as twin, 
undivorceable souls. “Something that happened to 
me, that I did. I Ve never told anybody; but it's 
always been there, hurting me. Until I met you, 
Nevill, I never thought I could be happy.” 

So, with her head against Nevilbs knee, she told 
him about Nicholas Wayne. 


CHAPTER VII 


T heir engagement was not announced until 
June. Even Edith’s desire to get her daugh¬ 
ter married did not allow of such hurried proceed¬ 
ings, and Malcolm O’Dare suddenly woke up to his 
parental rights and feelings. This was all very well, 
but rushing things was not to his taste; and besides 
he was n’t so sure he wanted Virginia to marry an 
Englishman. Still, he had to admit that there was n’t 
—apparently—anything very much the matter with 
Nevill Davies beyond the fact that he was an English¬ 
man, which was better from Malcolm’s point of view 
than any other brand of foreigner. He did n’t, for 
instance, expect impossible money settlements, nor any 
settlements at all, as far as Malcolm in a guarded in¬ 
terview with him could gather. Neither on one side 
nor the other was there any cash bargaining for 
Virginia. 

Though unannounced, the betrothal became an 
acknowledged fact in the bosom of Virginia’s family, 
and of course Mollie Shaw was told. Since it was 
inevitable, Mollie took it very well, just as she would 
resign herself to a bad cold or the income tax. There 
was no use of kicking, no use of protesting. In this 
45 


OBLIGATIONS 


46 

case it would merely cause a breach between her and 
Nevill, and she did n’t want to do that for several 
reasons, one of them being that Nevill was the god¬ 
father of her eldest child and had put young Chris¬ 
topher down in his will for a very nice sum, which 
it would be unwise to prejudice. 

No one was more surprised than Mollie at the un¬ 
folding of Virginia. Where there had been ice, there 
was now pure flame; the tightly locked bud opened petal 
by petal into a blossom of infinite loveliness; forced 
and detachedly patient interest in other people melted 
into abundant human sympathy. Love had worked its 
miracle more obviously and pleasantly in Virginia 
than with most young girls. She was much nicer. 
Her eyes dwelt even with affectionate toleration upon 
the perpetual game of flirtation that went on between 
her parents. Before, she had so often made them un¬ 
comfortable that they longed to get rid of her; and 
now they grew pensively sad at the thought of losing 
her. Before, she had made them feel old and fool¬ 
ish; and now she permitted them to be even younger 
and wiser than herself. 

No, they did n’t want to lose Virginia, now—for 
such is the contrariness of human nature—and they 
put little hurdles in the way of her escape, which 
Virginia jumped neatly with cleared skirts and a 
style they could not help but admire. 

‘‘If only we had waited and looked around for some 
nice young duke,” said Edith to her husband. 


OBLIGATIONS 


47 


“What duke?” Malcolm inquired bluntly. 

“Oh, I don’t know!” Edith waved her hands in a 
vague gesture. “There must be some. Anyway, 
you know what I mean. Of course I like Nevill, but 
I never dreamed that a man—any man—could change 
Jinny so much. Do you remember what that delight¬ 
ful old Baron What ’s-his-name—the Rumanian 
minister, was n’t he ?—what he once said about 
Jinny?” • 

Malcolm signified that he did n’t remember, if ever 
he’d heard what the Rumanian minister had said. 

Edith repeated it, a little garbled. 

“That Jinny was the reincarnation of Cleopatra and 
Catharine of Russia—” 

“Oh, my hat!” gasped Malcolm. 

“Well, that’s what he said, and he knows a lot 
about such things. And he said Jinny could rule the 
world if she wanted to, only she would n’t.” 

“Sensible Jinny,” Malcolm said dryly. 

“I wish you would n’t make fun of me. After all, 
there have been clever women, and no one can deny 
they have done great things. I guess I know what 
I’m talking about, and it’s not quite nice of you, 
Malcolm, to try to make me feel silly when I’ve al¬ 
ways helped you and done everything I could, and 
I always thought you loved me, but of course I’m 
past forty now—although if you did n’t know it I 
certainly would n’t tell you—and everybody else thinks 
I look so young for my age and that I must have 


OBLIGATIONS 


48 

been married in the cradle to have a daughter as 
old as Jinny, but I know that at just about my age 
husbands always do get tired of their wives . . 

Edith was equal to any strain, but Malcolm was n’t; 
and the discussion, which had begun about Virginia’s 
missing a nice young duke, ended in Malcolm’s as¬ 
suring his wife most earnestly, almost tearfully, ahd 
wholly truthfully that she was the only woman he 
had ever loved or wanted to love and that he could n’t 
go on like this—her always doubting him—and very 
likely he’d die, but with his last breath he’d breathe 
her name, and what with the life-insurance he carried, 
etc., she’d easily find a duke for herself, if that was 
the height of her ambition. 

They crashed in each other’s arms, Edith sobbing 
heavily but happily, Malcolm taking back what he said 
about dying; not yet he would n’t die, anyway—not for 
many years, when they would probably go together 
and be buried in one grave. This thought consoled 
her, and she found heart to smile again. 

In June the public was informed that a marriage 
had been arranged and would shortly take place be¬ 
tween Nevill and Virginia, but by that time it was 
rather stale news to anybody who might be interested 
in the young couple. The wedding was set for 
October. It was a happy summer, a wonderful sum¬ 
mer. They were exquisitely in love and very serious 
about it. They discussed their ideals and made charm¬ 
ing discoveries about each other; and while the same 


OBLIGATIONS 


49 

may be said of most young lovers, with Nevill and 
Virginia it was somehow a little different. 

They were going to make their home at Davies Hall; 
and in August Virginia dragged her mother from the 
delights of the trousseau and Mollie Shaw from Dieppe 
and made them come down to Deepshire with her and 
Nevill and help her plan the little changes, etc., which 
Nevill insisted upon for his bride. She felt almost 
reverent when it came to that future home of hers. 

They were going to be real people, Nevill and she; 
real, serious people who would give to life of their very 
best and so get from life a full return. The estate 
required considerable and careful management, and 
that was Nevilhs business. Virginia planned out all 
the things that she would have to do in making Deep¬ 
shire a happier place because of her coming. She 
hoped that the village mothers would n’t think her too 
young and inexperienced to take an interest in their 
babies and that the vicar wouldn’t resent her having 
a hand in parish affairs. She meant to be very tactful 
about all that. 

The best times were when Nevill and she strolled 
under the old trees together and talked about the 
greatest of all their mutual blessings, their love for 
each other. It had become a holy thing, that love, 
something so precious that it made them draw breath 
in sheer wonder that such a thing could be. 

Late one afternoon they sat side by side on the bank 
of the big lily-pond, and Nevill said suddenly: 


50 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘T wish we could be married to-morrow, and cut 
all the fuss and bother, and have the house to ourselves. 
I like your mother immensely, of course, but old 
Mollie's a bit of a bore. Let's run away and get 
married, Virginia.’' He never called her Jinny. 

Virginia smiled and gave him her hand to kiss. 

“Oh, I do wish we could! Only—it would n’t be 
quite fair to mother and father, would it?” 

‘T s’pose not. Still—I wish you would. Some¬ 
times I’m a little frightened of losing you. I’ve 
dreamt about it. Last night it was awful; I was hunt¬ 
ing all over the blooming place and could n’t find you.” 

“You have n’t much chance of losing me,” Virginia 
said. “Dreams are such silly things. You remember 
what I told you about that poor little boy, Nicholas 
Wayne? For years and years I used to dream about 
Nicholas. I suppose one of those psycho—psychoan¬ 
alyzers—^what do they call them, Nevill?—could have 
cured me. But it was you who really did cure me. 
I’ve got quite over it now. Nevill, I v/as the most 
morbid child!” 

“I ’ll wager you were an adorable child,” Nevill 
replied. 

“I was horrid. What my poor parents had to put 
up with 1 And all because I could n’t get the idea out 
of my head that I was responsible for that poor little 
boy’s death.” 

“You don’t know that he is dead,” said Nevill. 
“And anyway, it was n’t your fault.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


51 


“Yes, I can see that now—it was n’t really my fault 
. . . Oh, yes, it was, Nevilli I always had a horrid 
feeling that something might happen. The tree used 
to creak so. Oh, dear, poor, poor Nicholas!” 

She shivered as a little breeze swept across the pond 
and touched her face with cold fingers. 

“Virginia, you promised—” 

“Yes, I know, and I’m not going to think about it 
any more, dear. I ’ll never forget how sweet you were 
when I told you, how sensible. You made me see 
just what an idiot I’d been, and I’m never going to be 
that kind of an idiot again.’' 


CHAPTER VIII 


E arly in September Virginia and her mother 
returned to town, and the trousseau was re¬ 
sumed; and Mollie Shaw went across to Paris, whence 
after a fortnight she wrote to Edith advising her to 
bring Virginia over and finish the shopping there. 
The Parisian dressmakers had put forth a tremendous 
effort that autumn to make good the ravage war had 
wrought in their trade, and of course—wrote Mollie— 
whatever people might say to the contrary, one did 
benefit by the exchange. 

So, coaxing another check out of poor Malcolm, 
Edith dashed over to Paris with Virginia, who did not 
want to go and felt sorry for her father for having to 
spend so much money on so many clothes that she was 
convinced she did not need, even though the honey¬ 
moon was to be spent in Biarritz. They were to be in 
Paris a week, and Nevill was coming over for a day or 
two and would fetch them home again. 

In two months, thought Virginia, trying to be pa¬ 
tient, both the wedding and the honeymoon would be 
over and Nevill and she settled for life at Davies Hall. 
She was just a little bored by all the fuss and bother, 
and terribly tired of being fitted for so many dresses. 

52 


OBLIGATIONS 


53 

They joined Mrs. Shaw at the Regina, and forth¬ 
with the two elder women plunged into those pleasures 
which are to be extracted from the Rue de la Paix, 
dragging a reluctant Virginia in their wake. During 
these excursions Mollie Shaw discovered all over again 
that Virginia was not quite human. Who ever heard 
of a bride-to-be who was not interested in her own 
trousseau? Virginia had been enthusiastic enough 
about the smartening up of Davies Hall, but clothes 
had always seemed to be her mother’s affair, and it 
became plainer and plainer to Mollie that when the 
trousseau was worn out, Nevill’s wife would degener¬ 
ate into a hopeless frump unless Edith kept up exhaust¬ 
ing efforts on her behalf. 

There was a stubborn quality in Virginia’s meek¬ 
ness. She always let other people have their own way; 
she gave in placidly; but getting her to do what she did 
not want to do was like pushing a ton weight uphill. 
It was such hard work for everybody. Mollie was 
frankly glad when Edith gave up the task one morning 
and they went out shopping together and had a lovely 
time, finishing up with a cocktail at the Cafe de la Paix 
and the sort of lunch that Virginia would never have 
chosen, in a restaurant where it would not have been 
quite the thing to take her. After lunch they went to 
see a new comedy at the Varietes, and it was just as 
well Virginia had n’t been taken there, either. 

Left to her own devices, Virginia had announced 
her intention of spending the day in the Louvre—^need- 


54 


OBLIGATIONS 


less to state, the picture-gallery, not the shop—and was 
advised to take Mrs. Shawls maid with her for propri¬ 
ety and protection. She had meant to do so, but 
wandered out of the hotel forgetting all about Hedges 
sitting so patiently waiting to be summoned; and a 
little later, strolling happily along the river, forgot 
that she had meant to go to the Louvre. She crossed 
over and spent a couple of hours browsing among the 
old book-stalls, dreaming idly and deliciously, then 
lost herself in the maze of the Quartier Latin, thought 
about lunch and satisfied that craving with chocolate 
and cakes at a patisserie, and wandered out again into 
the golden, humid glow of the autumn afternoon. 
Time to be getting back to the Regina, for there would 
be an awful fuss if her mother returned first and dis¬ 
covered Hedges still waiting. For by now Virginia 
had recollected Hedges. 

She took her bearings with a view toward return¬ 
ing and was standing at the curb waiting for a chance 
to cross the street without unnecessary risk to life and 
limb when somebody clapped her familiarly on the 
back, and a man’s voice said briskly: 

‘‘How now, my little sphinx-maiden, what are you 
doing here all by yourself?” 

And Virginia, who knew that Paris was a terrible 
place for a girl to trot about alone in—although so 
far nothing faintly resembling an adventure had hap¬ 
pened to her—turned deathly white, jerked away from 


OBLIGATIONS 


55 

the familiar hand, and was on the point of bounding 
recklessly into the traffic when common sense came to 
her rescue and she faced her accoster with a laugh. 

“Oh, how you frightened me!” she cried. “Just 
for a moment I thought ...” 

“That I was the wolf, eh?” 

It was Fedor Chiostro, with whom she was great 
friends—^the only person in the world, except Nevill, 
who understood her, or at least who knew there was 
something about her that required understanding. 

“I ought n’t to be out alone,” said Virginia. “Mrs. 
Shaw’s poor maid was put at my disposal, but I for¬ 
got all about her. I ’ve been having a lovely time. 
Look!” She held up the shabby little volume of old 
French poems she had captured from one of the 
book-stalls. 

Chiostro admired her purchase and laughed so 
heartily when Virginia told him that her mother and 
Mrs. Shaw were shopping for her trousseau that her 
feelings were a little hurt. 

“But if you will not waste your time so,” he said, 
“perhaps you will come and idle for an hour over the 
tea-cups with me. I am just around the corner for 
the moment—a small hired studio, most inconven¬ 
ient for my needs, but the owner, poor devil, needs the 
rent, and so I have taken it. Rather, I am sharing 
it with him . . . Oh, my wife is there, of course!” 
(Had Virginia hesitated?) “She is really a nice. 


OBLIGATIONS 


56 

comfortable sort of wife—always there, but never in 
the way. If you take a pattern by Madame Chiostro, 
your husband will bless you, my dear.^’ 

Virginia smiled faintly. She liked the shaggy- 
haired old man. IVas he old? Perhaps fifty, but no 
comment is needed upon twenty-one’s estimate of a 
fifty that quite looks his age and a little more. But 
that she herself should ever become like Madame 
Chiostro, faded, insecure, useful, tolerated, and wholly 
lacking in the social graces, was unthinkable. Fedor 
Chiostro did n’t love his wife, yet he must have loved 
her once. Or had he married her for money? No, 
there was n’t any. He made a great deal himself, but 
they were always hard up, living generously yet preca¬ 
riously. Chiostro was never happy unless he owed 
more money than he had any immediate hope of pay¬ 
ing. Virginia had rather marveled at this sort of 
success which, in a financial sense, was no success. 
Her own life had been so hedged about with caution. 
When her father lamented at expense, it did not mean 
that he was pawning his cuff-links for to-morrow’s 
bread. Yet with the Chiostros it might mean literally 
that. 

She trudged along beside the old man and felt subtly 
gratified when queer-looking students swept off their 
impossible hats in astonishing bows, thus acknowledg¬ 
ing the presence of a master. Sometimes, although 
she did n’t see, they turned their heads to look after 


OBLIGATIONS 


57 

Virginia and perhaps to think things that she would n’t 
have liked. Lucky dog, Chiostro! 

Up a little side turning by an old railed garden, filled 
with broken statuary and overgrown with shrubbery 
and weeds, they came to one of those great, blank¬ 
looking buildings which distinguish the untidy byways 
of Paris, an inexpressive house burdened perhaps with 
strange secrets, mysteriously attractive in spite of its 
sheer ugliness. 

“Here I am domiciled for the present,” said Chios¬ 
tro. “Now you must take a long breath for the 
stairs.” 

He was right. The stairs went up and up, inter¬ 
minable little broken flights leading straight into the 
sky, it would seem. 

“But when we get there,” panted Chiostro, “the 
view is wonderful. It will repay you.” 


CHAPTER IX 


HIS was in great contrast to the charming studio 



on the Chelsea Embankment, but it had its 


attractive qualities. Here, Chiostro explained, it was 
good to play at student days again; those wonderful 
days which, alas, would never return with quite the 
same essence youth had imparted to them. Yet it was 
good fun to pretend. 

“And always I am poor, anyway; so in that way it 
is exactly the same,” he said with his jovial laugh. 
“Enter, little sphinx-maiden. Mama, are you there? 
Here is a young friend of mine who wants her tea. 

. . . Ah, Nico—^how does the work progress? You 
must put it aside now and wash your grubby paws, for 
the sphinx-maiden has come to pay us a visit.” 

Thus Chiostro, shouting out as he ushered Virginia 
into the big attic room that served him for a temporary 
studio. 

It was a bare room, scantily furnished even for a 
working studio. The great skylight harshly em¬ 
phasized its general unloveliness. A man sat hunched 
up on a stool behind a large canvas, painting for dear 
life from a lay-figure in Greek draperies. He did not 
look up or return Chiostro's salutation, and all Virginia 


OBLIGATIONS [59 

could see of him was a thatch of coal-black hair and a 
pair of legs wrapped around the legs of the stool. 

Madame Chiostro peered timidly out from some 
lair of her own leading to the rear and smiled in a 
watery fashion when she saw Virginia. 

*‘Oh, how do you do, Miss—Miss—” 

“Surely you have n’t forgotten me!” Virginia cried 
reproachfully. “Virginia O’Dare.” 

“Of course, of course; Miss O’Dare. There are so 
many of them coming and going all the time I some¬ 
times forget. You must excuse me. You wish tea, 
papa ?” 

“If you please,” said Chiostro. 

The man behind the canvas unwound his legs from 
the stool and, with a little clicking sound of impatience, 
laid aside his palette and brush. It was quite plain 
that he did not care for this interruption. 

“Now then, Nico, show that you can be a gentle¬ 
man!” Chiostro exclaimed. “Here I have brought 
you a charming countrywoman of your own. Sphinx- 
maiden, this is Mr. Nicholas Wayne, who one of these 
days, a hundred years from now, will be hung in the 
Louvre. Just now he is my landlord, and that is all 
the glory he requires for the present.” 

Virginia’s heart gave a sickening thump, as the 
young man let himself down from the stool and came 
toward her. She felt that she would have known him 
even if Chiostro hadn’t spoken his name; Nicholas 
Wayne, tall, lanky, dark-haired Nicholas, the boy she 


6 o 


OBLIGATIONS 


thought she had killed, the boy that in her dreams since 
the age of seven she had murdered over and over 
again. 

As he crossed the room it was like watching the 
progress of some wounded animal. He was very 
lame; obviously something wrong with the right hip- 
joint. His beauty was almost startling, yet at a second 
glance one felt repelled and frightened by it. That 
cold, white face, so pure of outline, those great dark 
eyes, that finely chiseled mouth, all set in a sinister 
mold, as though somewhere behind there crouched a 
chained fury ready to leap, to strike, to kill, if only 
it got the chance. That sullen, limping creature was 
Nicholas Wayne. 

Virginia stood looking at him, staring in fascina¬ 
tion as he dragged himself toward her, all the color 
gone from her own face, her eyes wide. 

‘This young person was the sensation of the Lon¬ 
don season,'^ said Chiostro. “All through me. I 
made her famous. I painted the naked fear in her 
soul.” 

“She is afraid of me,” said the young man, with 
startling: directness. “Have n’t you ever seen a cripple 
before?” 

“I’m sorry—I—really I did n’t mean to stare,” Vir¬ 
ginia stammered. “I only thought I—I had met you 
somewhere before. A long time ago. When we were 
both quite small.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


6 i 


Nicholas Wayne laughed in a jeering way. 

“Not likely.” Then some faint response jogged his 
memory. ‘T heard you tell Madame Chiostro that your 
name was Virginia. Did they ever call you Jinny?” 

“Yes—I—yes, I thought you’d remember,” Vir¬ 
ginia said breathlessly. 

“I don’t. But there was a kid I knew once. I think 
her name was Jinny. Did you ever live in Little 
Rock, Arkansas?” 

Virginia nodded. “When I was a child,” she said. 

Chiostro rubbed his hands together and chuckled. 
“An old romance, eh? But why do you both look so 
tragic? Were you parted by a lovers’ quarrel?” 

Virginia turned her strange gaze upon him for a 
fleeting moment. 

“It was a tragedy,” she said. Then she put her 
hands to her face. “Oh dear, oh dear!” she moaned. 
“Oh, what am I going to do ?” 

The young man shrugged his shoulders. “What’s 
the matter with the girl?” he demanded of Chiostro. 

“I don’t know. Little sphinx-maiden, sit down and 
take things easy. Here’s mama with a nice cup of tea 
for you. Nico, good lad, give the fire a poke, will 
you ? Now we ’ll try to find out what it’s all about.” 

Madame Chiostro, entering with the burdened tray, 
glanced casually at Virginia, as though the sight of 
a grief-stricken young girl being comforted by her 
husband was nothing out of the ordinary. 


62 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘‘Do you want me to pour?” she asked. 

“No, mama. You run away again. Nico and I 
will take care of the sphinx-maiden.” 

Madame Chiostro, small, shrunken, fugitive, gave 
a faint sigh of relief as she departed. As her hus¬ 
band said, she was there when wanted, but never in 
the way. 

“You know, Nico won’t eat you,” said Chiostro. 
“That savage glare of his means nothing.” 

Nicholas thrust his hands into his pockets and lolled 
clumsily against the mantelpiece, looking down at Vir¬ 
ginia with a thoughtful, wondering expression. 

“I guess you remember me better ’n I do you,” he 
said. “What’d I ever do to you to scare you so?” 

“It’s what I did to you,” Virginia replied faintly. 

Chiostro cut himself a big slice of cake and munched 
it, rolling his eyes from one to the other. 

“What’d you do to me?” demanded the young 
painter. 

“Don’t you remember? The cherry-tree? The 
swing?” 

An expression as of black lightning swept his fea¬ 
tures. 

“I had nothing else to think of for five years,” he 
said. “Nothing but that and watching the flies on the 
ceiling. I was strapped to a board flat on my back for 
five years; but it did n’t do any good, as you can see. 
Were you in the meadow that day? Were you the kid 
whose lunch I ate?” 


OBLIGATIONS 63 

'T pushed you ... in the swing/’ said Virginia. 
“When it broke. I thought you were killed.” 

“I wish to God I had been killed!” he exclaimed 
passionately. 

“Oh, come now, come now,” said Chiostro. 
“You’ve told me yourself that your life would have 
been quite different if it had n’t been for that 
accident. You might never have discovered your 
great talent, or found anybody to take an interest in 
you.” 

“That’s true,” Nicholas said with bitter emphasis. 
“My great talent! Great enough to starve; dragging 
through life with a sick body when I should have 
leaped and bounded. What would you choose for 
yourself ?” 

“I would choose my art,” Chiostro said quietly. 

“That’s because you don’t know what physical suf¬ 
fering is.” 

“No, it’s because I do know what art is. Behold a 
woman nobly and subtly beautified by the memory of 
your tragedy—and a man who will one day be a great 
painter. But for that, neither of you might ever have 
been heard of. This poor child blames herself—” 

“Pah! She need n’t,” growled Nicholas. He 
looked at Virginia contemptuously. Let her suffer. 
What were her sufferings compared to his? But he 
had no notion whatever of blaming her for that ac¬ 
cident of long ago. 

“I must get back,” Virginia said, suddenly aware 


OBLIGATIONS 


64 

that the atternoon had waned. “Mother will be ter¬ 
rified. She does n’t know where I am.” 

“I ’ll drive you to your hotel myself,” said Chiostro. 
“Wait just a moment till I fetch my hat and coat.” 

He left them alone together. 

“Shall I see you again?” asked Nicholas Wayne. 

Virginia looked up at him, her eyes silently plead¬ 
ing. She wanted her freedom; she wanted him to 
say that he bore her no grudge, so that she could be 
happy as she had been since Nevill had opened the 
exquisite door of love to her. 

“I must see you again.” He spoke imperatively 
now. 

“We are only in Paris for a few days,” Virginia 
faltered. 

“Then come here to-morrow. I want to talk to 
you. I want to tell you about my life. Will you 
come ? It’s not easy for me to get up and down those 
stairs, or I wouldn’t trouble you, but—” 

“Yes, I ’ll come,” Virginia agreed hurriedly. 


CHAPTER X 


V IRGINIA got back to the hotel only a few mo¬ 
ments behind her mother and Mrs. Shaw, and 
there was Nevill just arrived. They were all three in 
the lounge, half perturbed yet convinced that she must 
be somewhere around in spite of the fact that the’ 
abandoned Hedges could tell them nothing. 

Chiostro came in with her and made his apologies to 
Edith. 

‘Tt is entirely my fault. You must not scold her,** 
he said. He was quite gracious to Edith for a change. 

NevilFs coming was a surprise. He had not been 
expected until to-morrow or the next day. He was so 
boyishly pleased to see her, and Chiostro was so volu¬ 
ble and friendly, that Edith had n*t the heart to scold 
Virginia for roaming around Paris all day by her¬ 
self. They asked Chiostro to dine with them, but he 
declined. There was something of a Mephisto in his 
expression as he glanced sidewise at the pale Vir¬ 
ginia and said hurriedly in parting: ^‘Nico tells me 
you will look in again. That is good. Here is our 
address.** He gave her a card with the address scrib¬ 
bled in lead-pencil. 

A change had come over her, swiftly, delicately, 
6 s 


66 


OBLIGATIONS 


scarce perceptible at first to her mother or Nevill. 
They thought she was merely a little tired. 

“Now we’d better dress and go out somewhere to 
dinner/’ Edith said gaily. “Really, Mollie, you and 
I are getting to be fearful gadabouts. What would 
our husbands say!” 

“I don’t think you ’re looking after them properly,” 
Nevill remarked to his fiancee. “Your mother is so 
incurably young. Did she give you much trouble when 
you were a child, Virginia?” 

Mollie Shaw laughed heartily, but although Edith 
joined in she did not quite like the way Nevill had put 
it. She knew she was a little frivolous; and staid, 
quiet Virginia sometimes made her feel ridiculous. 
Moreover, when one is past forty, one does n’t like to 
be called incurably young. It means that one is try¬ 
ing, or pretending; making an obvious effort. 

“You ’re a cheeky boy,” she said. “Come, Jinny, 
I think you ought to lie down for half an hour. 
We ’ll dine here after all, unless you specially want to 
go out, Mollie.” 

“I don’t mind in the least,” Mrs. Shaw replied with 
a little yawn. 

She stayed behind in the lounge with Nevill when 
the O’Dares went up to their rooms. 

“Order me a cocktail, Nevill; that’s a dear.” 

Nevill ordered it, and one for himself. They re¬ 
tired into a corner for a cousinly chat. 

“Well, what’s the news?” 


OBLIGATIONS 


67 

^‘Nothing special, except that I here,** Nevill re¬ 
plied. “Virginia looks a bit fagged. Aren*t you 
overdoing that trousseau business?’* 

Mollie lifted her shoulders languidly. 

“Edith and I may be overdoing it. Virginia is n’t. 
She’s been mooning about by herself all day.** 

“Where did she run into Chiostro?” 

“Don’t ask me.’* 

Without any particular reason that he could give 
even to himself, Nevill felt uneasy. Virginia was 
tired—any one could see that—^but she had looked at 
him with the frightened haunted eyes of her famous 
portrait. It was all there in her face, the strange soul 
that Fedor Chiostro had painted, the shadowed, bur¬ 
dened soul suffering and distressed. A little fear 
clutched him, just a vague, feeble grip of apprehension 
that perhaps she had suddenly discovered she didn’t 
care for him any more. This hotel afforded a poor 
setting for intimate confidences. He wished he could 
have Virginia alone for a little while in the familiar 
environment of South Audley Street; or, best of all, 
that they were safely married and at home. 

All the while the clever eyes of his wise cousin were 
questioning him. Mollie was almost too much a 
woman of the world. He caught her glance through a 
filmy haze of cigarette smoke and resented it. 

“Well,” he said jauntily, “if you ’ll excuse me, I 
think I ’ll go up and change now. The train was filthy. 
I feel like a pig.** 


68 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘Toor NevillP' murmured Mollie. 

“What do you mean?” His voice was suddenly 
sharp. 

“Nothing. I wish you wouldn’t catch me up so.” 
And her voice was pettish. 

They parted with the mutual conviction that some¬ 
thing had been left unsaid—something concerning 
Virginia—yet neither had the faintest idea what it 
could be. 

Virginia was glad that her mother left her alone, 
confident in the belief that she would lie down and rest 
for a little while, as had been suggested. 

She entered her room and closed the door, then went 
to one of the windows that overlooked the Rue de 
Rivoli and parted the curtains. Lights flashed up, 
dotting the gardens across the way, and the street 
swarmed with noisy traffic. It was a familiar scene: 
Paris very busy at half-past six in the evening; every¬ 
body going home or elsewhere. 

Her attitude was that of a sleep-walker. Something 
which had mercifully relaxed its hold on her for a 
blessed while had caught her again. Nicholas Wayne. 
She repeated the name, shivering with cold. If only 
she had gone to the Louvre with Hedges instead of 
wandering around by herself. ^But it was too late to 
think of what she might or should have done. It was 
more terrible than if Nicholas had died. His whole 
warped life stood out before her like the clear printed 
pages of a book. She didn’t need him fo tell her 


OBLIGATIONS 


69 

about it. She knew it all. With fearful powers of 
imagination she saw him being carried back uncon¬ 
scious from the meadow to his sordid home in the 
Ditch. All the homes in the Ditch had been sordid. 
Perhaps he had no father, and his mother had supported 
her family by taking in washing. And then the doc¬ 
tor had come and said that Nicholas must go to 
the hospital, where they had then taken him to 
endure five years of horror. 

She had known that some day* that hough would 
break. 

Was n’t it a clear proof of her own guilt that when 
Nicholas had shouted and urged her to push him 
higher she had listened half expectantly for the omi¬ 
nous creak of the old wood? 

Gropingly she explored the dim aisles of memory. 

Oh, she hated Nicholas Wayne! 

So often she had murdered him in her dreams, the 
adored Nicholas of her childhood. But now that she 
had seen him again, knew how he had suffered, seen 
him crippled in body and warped in brain, she hated 
and feared and loathed him. 

She drew a hand swiftly across her eyes as though 
to blot out the vision of that cold white face, that 
jeering smile. According to Chiostro—not given to 
unmerited praise—he was talented, might become fa¬ 
mous if he chose, but he did n’t care about it. He was 
dead to everything but his lost youth and the years of 
pain he had suffered and his disappointed manhood. 


70 


OBLIGATIONS 


Edith tapped at the door that separated their rooms. 

“Darling, are you awake? I think you'd better 
dress now.’^ 

“Yes, mother.’^ 

The door opened. Edith was full of chatter and 
wanted to be hooked into her frock. She scolded just 
a little. 

“You know, darling, you shouldn’t have gone off 
by yourself like that, and I’m not at all sure that I 
approve of your going to Chiostro’s studio, even though 
he is a great friend of yours. In London—well, 
London’s different. I hope Madame Chiostro was 
there.” 

“Yes, she was there,” said Virginia. 


CHAPTER XI 


T here was every reason in the world against 
Virginia’s being able to keep the engagement 
with Nicholas Wayne. Her own inclination was op¬ 
posed to it. She did not want to see him again; but 
now he had become a definite fact in her brain, no 
longer merely a nebulous personality. Nicholas Wayne 
was an idea made flesh and blood, a disincarnate bogy 
come to life. And if the memory of him had haunted 
her, the living man had power to break her spirit com¬ 
pletely, even to ruin her life, should he choose to do so. 
She could no more resist or oppose him than previously 
she had been able to ignore the idea. 

It was Nevill who for a brief season had laid her 
ghost, taken her by the hand out into the sunshine of 
realities, and shown her what a happy woman she 
ought to be. But although Nevill had laid the ghost, 
Virginia knew that he could not help her when it came 
to the living man. 

There was something she would be required to do 
for Nicholas Wayne. A little shamed by the thought, 
she wondered if money could mend matters. Would 
it be an insult to offer him money as some slight com¬ 
pensation for all he had suffered? The attic in the 
71 


OBLIGATIONS 


72 

Rue Genevieve looked poverty-stricken, and doubtless 
Nicholas required many things that he could not afford. 
Struggling artists were always being assisted, and his¬ 
tory scarcely recorded an instance of false pride^s ris¬ 
ing above their urgent need. It was considered the 
thing for them to be helped. Perhaps, thought Vir¬ 
ginia, her father, poor harassed man, could spare a 
couple of thousand dollars for Nicholas; or there was 
Nevill: after they were married, she and Nevill to¬ 
gether would do something for Nicholas. But there 
was no real conviction in her mind that money would 
solve this problem. There are some determining facts 
in life over which money has no power at all. 

That evening she sat with Nevill in a corner of the 
hotel drawing-room, and they discussed the details of 
their approaching marriage. In another fortnight the 
important event would be safely over. By this time, 
of course, the bridesmaids had been chosen and the 
invitations were out. Edith, always beforehand, had 
about completed all arrangements, except that the trous¬ 
seau would probably go on being bought right up to 
the last moment, since shopping was a personal weak¬ 
ness of Virginia’s mother. 

Nevill did most of the talking. He was still uneasy 
concerning that something-in-the-air which he could 
not define, and Mollie Shaw’s mysteriously veiled re¬ 
marks had made him uncomfortable; but he told him¬ 
self that it was ridiculous to have imagined for a mo¬ 
ment that Virginia cared any the less for him. It 


OBLIGATIONS 


73 

was flattering to observe that, if anything, she seemed 
to care rather more. Her shadowed eyes dwelt upon 
his face with hungry devotion; she slipped her hand 
into his when they could be sure no one saw; and 
when he talked about Davies Hall she sighed quickly 
and said, ‘‘Oh, Nevill, I do wish it was all over and 
we were home.’^ She brought out the word “home” 
with a shy self-consciousness that filled him with tender 
delight. “I know it’s wicked to wish time away, but 
I can’t help it. I want everything to be over, to belong 
to you and be at home with you. Then—and then 
only—^will life begin. Nothing else seems real. 
Mother says being engaged is the happiest time of 
a girl’s life, and I thought so, too . . . until recently. 
Does it sound forward to say I wish I were your 
wife?” 

“I imagine you know what I think about that,” 
Nevill replied. Then he asked: “What has hap¬ 
pened? I mean, since you’ve been here.” 

There was this curious understanding between them, 
inexplicable to both, that they seemed to read each 
other’s mind by instinct. 

“Nicholas Wayne,” Virginia replied. “He’s alive. 
I saw him to-day at Fedor Chiostro’s.” 

Nevill whistled under his breath. “That’s a curious 
coincidence. Tell me about it.” 

Virginia; told him. There was n’t much, of course, 
but imagination supplied the lacking details. 

“Poor devil!” Nevill exclaimed, “But you must n’t 


74 OBLIGATIONS 

let it prey on your mind, darling. Remember, you 
promised me—” 

“I promised something quite different,” said Vir¬ 
ginia. ‘T did n’t even know he was alive; I had n’t 
the faintest idea I should ever see him again. I must 
try to do something for him, Nevill.” 

“Yes, yes; we both will. I’ll go with you 
to-morrow—” 

“Oh, no! You don’t understand. Nicholas would 
simply hate it ... if we patronized him together. 
That’s what it would look like. I must go alone, but 
you can help me. You—^you can cover my tracks.” 
She laughed nervously. “You see, I have n’t said any¬ 
thing to mother. It would only worry her if she 
knew I’d brooded over this thing so long.” 

Nevill frowned. 

“You want me to take you to Chiostro’s place and 
leave you to talk to the fellow ?” 

“Please, Nevill. Madame Chiostro is there. Poor 
Nicholas himself is a cripple. There could n’t be any¬ 
thing you’d object to.” 

“What does he want to see you for?” 

“I don’t know. He said something about telling 
me about his life. It can’t hurt me to humor him—” 

“Stuff and nonsense 1 ” 

“Then if you won’t help me I must manage for 
myself.” 

“What do you want me to do?” Nevill asked, frown¬ 
ing darkly into space. 


OBLIGATIONS 


75 

‘ 7 ust take me to the door. There's a little cafe 
at the corner— 

“There always is/’ Nevill muttered. 

“You could wait there—” 

“For how long?” 

“Until I’ve seen Nicholas.” 

“A quarter of an hour?” 

By this time Nevill had completely forgotten being 
swamped by a wave of sympathy for Nicholas Wayne. 

“Not more than an hour, certainly,” Virginia 
replied. 

Here was the stubborn Virginia, the Virginia whose 
purpose could be deadly, the Virginia that Mollie 
Shaw and Edith had found such a heavy weight to 
carry when it suited her not to fall in with their wishes. 
Like her mother and Mollie, Nevill gave it up. 

“Oh, well—” he said grudgingly. 

“Thank you, dear.” 

“I don’t like it at all,” he grumbled. 

“I can’t see why. It ’ll make me feel so much more 
comfortable if I know you ’re waiting for me just at 
the corner.” 

“I don’t mean that. Of course I don’t mind wait¬ 
ing for you anywhere and as long as you like. But 
I don’t see the sense of your going.” 

Virginia sighed. She had n’t any idea how stubborn 
she was, or at least seemed to be. Nevill, who under¬ 
stood her so well, surely ought to understand this. 
She could n’t help herself. She had to do what 


OBLIGATIONS 


76 

Nicholas Wayne asked her to do, and on the surface 
his request was simple and natural enough. She was 
some one he had known as a child, some one intimately 
and most unfortunately connected with the tragedy of 
his life. Why should n’t he wish to tell her about it? 
Couldn’t Nevill see that she could no more refuse to 
listen than she could help drawing breath? And how 
could she possibly take Nevill with her? Unless 
Chiostro had told him, Nicholas Wayne did n’t know 
she was engaged to be married, and it would be—what 
was the word ?—indelicate, presumptuous, uncalled for, 
to bring Nevill with her; certainly as though they had 
come to patronize if not something a little worse. 
Patiently she tried to explain to Nevill how lame 
Nicholas was; what a—she suspected—misanthrope; 
yet a genius, according to Chiostro. But she did not 
tell Nevill that she feared and almost, if not quite, 
hated Nicholas Wayne. It seemed unfair to Nicholas; 
proof that such resentment was born of her own guilty 
conscience. She hated because she had injured—the 
natural retort of petty souls, and Virginia loathed this 
revelation of her soul’s pettiness. That must be got 
over, and it could only be done by establishing sympa¬ 
thy between herself and Nicholas, listening to him 
telling her what he wanted to, letting him forgive her 
if he would. 

It surprised and hurt her to find Nevill so hard to 
deal with, to realize that he could not see eye to eye 
with her in this important matter. He thought it 


OBLIGATIONS 


77 

could be settled in fifteen minutes, if there was any 
necessity to settle it at all. Yet how clearly she had 
told him, when first they became engaged, that the 
tragedy of Nicholas Wayne had affected her whole life, 
obsessed her to such an extent that people discussed her 
*'queerness” and Fedor Chiostro saw and painted it! 
Now that she had met Nicholas again, he could not be 
dismissed with casual pity. 

There was no quarrel, because it was impossible to 
quarrel with Virginia O’Dare. The thing had never 
been done. She simply sat wide-eyed under Nevill’s 
sharp protests and repeated, ‘T wish I could make you 
understand, dear”; or 'T hoped you would understand.” 

Perhaps Nevill understood all too well. At least he 
thought of an aspect of the affair which had not re¬ 
motely occurred to Virginia. He knew that under 
the spell of this obsession or belief or consciousness of 
responsibility she could be led far by the man, Nicholas 
Wayne. And that man was an unknown quantity to 
Nevill. Virginia’s description of him did not inspire 
admiration or confidence—a crippled, bad-tempered 
painter starving in a Paris attic. Would he not be too 
ready to seize upon any advantage ? How long would 
it take him to learn that he held Virginia in the hollow 
of his hand, as far as her conscience was concerned? 
Perhaps he knew it already. 

Yet the next day Nevill went with her to the house 
in the Rue Genevieve—how he detested the sight of 
that barracks, with its shuttered windows like heavy- 


OBLIGATIONS 


7B 

lidded eyes!—and then he adjourned to the cafe at the 
corner, just across from the garden filled with broken 
statuary and weeds, and waited patiently for her over 
a tumbler of vile coffee and innumerable cigarettes. 

It came suddenly to Nevill, out of the soft haze of 
the autumn sky, that he detested Paris. 


CHAPTER XII 


O F Virginia’s second meeting with Nicholas Wayne 
a whole volume might be written and a great 
deal still left unexplained. The temptation is to write 
nothing at all, merely to pass over it with a sigh; for 
the moment she disappeared from Nevill Davies’s view 
and began the pilgrimage of the stairs she was as one 
lost even to herself. Actually she came down the 
stairs again well within the hour promised and rejoined 
Nevill at the cafe, and together they returned to the 
Hotel Regina. 

But she was really lost when she went in. Months 
later she was found again, or at least reported as seen 
in various places. Some one claimed to have seen her 
in a shabby neighborhood near Versailles and was so 
shocked that she—it was a woman—promptly wrote 
to Mollie Shaw. There is an exciting element of 
pleasure in being shocked at other people’s misfortunes. 
This woman said to Mrs. Shaw: 

I don’t think I could possibly be mistaken that it was 
Virginia O’Dare. Of course you never told me, Mollie, 
just why the engagement between her and Nevill was 
broken off—at the last moment, too!—or what happened 
to her. Did she go back to America with her parents? 
79 


8 o 


OBLIGATIONS 


But I am sure I saw her in Versailles. It was in that 
horrid long street with the tram-lines leading to the 
palace, and she looked very shabby—dreadfully shabby!— 
and had a basket on her arm. Evidently been marketing 
in the French bourgeois fashion. Hilbert and I had been 
spending the day at Versailles and were looking for a 
taxi when she passed us. Hilbert saw her first. He said, 
^‘Good heavens, isn’t that Virginia O’Dare?” And it 
was. 

She recognized us, I’m sure, but she went by quickly 
and we had no chance to speak to her. I won’t attempt 
to describe what she looked like. It was only a passing 
glimpse, anyway. There was something terrible about 
her, Mollie—^too terrible for words. It quite spoiled our 
day. 

One used to hear such queer things before she became 
engaged to Nevill, but she was always a sweet girl, I 
thought, and so lovely except to that awful old Fedor 
Chiostro. Of course you must have seen his portrait of 
her. Hilbert gave it such a name, funny but slightly 
blasphemous I thought. Anyway, Chiostro did make her 
look somehow accursed. Was there, by any chance, any 
other man mixed up in the affair? One never heard of 
any one but Nevill, and they always seemed so devoted. 
I simply gasped when I read it was broken off. 

By this time I hope poor Nevill is recovering. Some 
time ago I heard that he’d got himself transferred to 
another regiment and was in India, but Bruce Wakeley 
told me he’d merely resigned and gone out to the East 
somewhere to shoot tigers as they always do. When you 
write, I hope you ’ll relieve my curiosity a little. 


OBLIGATIONS 


8 i 


Some one else—a man this time—saw Virginia on 
a pleasure-boat on the Seine; and, as he was going 
to St.-Cloud himself, had more time in which to observe 
her than had Mollie Shaw’s correspondent. The man’s 
name was Toombe, and he had served the O’Dares as 
butler during their residence in South Audley Street; 
so consequently there could be no mistake in his recog¬ 
nition. The incident of the St.-Cloud boat happened 
two years after Virginia disappeared from the world 
that had known her. 

Toombe’s employer, the lady of title who had sublet 
him together with her mansion to the O’Dares, had re¬ 
turned to her own; and the following summer Toombe 
spent his annual holiday in Paris shepherded by the 
Polytechnic, and when he returned had some interesting 
gossip to retail to Mrs. Marston, the housekeeper. 

Mrs. Marston and he had a bite of supper together 
in her sitting-room the night Toombe came back, and 
between them they saw that it was a satisfactory meal, 
cold pie and salad, a bottle of claret, and some very 
tasty Roquefort. But even the cheese was not tastier 
than what he had to relate. 

^'We were going to San’-Cloo that day,” said 
Toombe. “Pronounced so, although it’s spelled 
Saint-Cloud. Little boats, you know, not so very 
different from our Thames steamers—but bigger per¬ 
haps. Well, I don’t know, maybe they aren’t much 
bigger—” 

“And you say you saw Miss O’Dare?” interrupted 


82 


OBLIGATIONS 


Mrs. Marston, who was not interested in the size of 
the Seine steamboats. 

“Yes, I saw her,” Toombe replied, in the defensive 
tone of one who did not quite expect to be believed. 
“I saw her and she saw me. She spoke to me. She 
was sitting there on the deck with a queer-looking little 
man—like a broken-down jockey he might have been. 
Very queer-looking man, Mrs. Marston. When I say 
he might have been a jockey—” 

“What did Miss O’Dare say to you?” asked the 
housekeeper. 

“Just, ^Oh, how do you do, Toombe.’ 

“And I said: ‘Very well, miss. I hope you ’re the 
same.- 

“And she said: T’m quite well, thank you. Is n’t it 
a lovely day ? Are you having a holiday ?’ 

“And I said, ‘Yes, thank you, miss.’ . . . 

“Well, everybody was crushing in—there was a lot 
of us—^you know what a Polytechnic is, very conven¬ 
ient I must say, but—” 

“What did Miss O’Dare look like?” Mrs. Marston 
asked breathlessly. 

“Look like? Now let me think.” Toombe drained 
off a glass of the excellent claret while he was think¬ 
ing, and then nodded his head slowly. “Very ’ard up, 
I should say. Been through it—regularly through it, 
by all appearances. You remember how pretty she 
used to be?” 


OBLIGATIONS 


83 

Mrs. Marston was shocked. *'Her looks all gone?” 

“Well, that’s a question. What some folks calls 
looks, others don’t. I’m no great judge, myself, of 
female beauty. Yet I do know this: Miss O’Dare 
was as pretty as a flower when Sir Nevill was 
a-courting of her, and she is n’t that now. You’d say 
she’d never see thirty again. And such clothes!” 

“What did she have on, Mr. Toombe?” 

“No hat,” said Toombe. 

“No hat?” shrilled Mrs. Marston. 

“Nothing of the kind. And a shawl over her 
shoulders. A gray knitted shawl. And a sort of 
gray or brown dress that needed pressing, and shoes 
all worn down at the heels.” 

“Poor little thing! How do you make out it hap¬ 
pened, Mr. Toombe? What do you suppose she did? 
Her mother and father so fond of her and all, and 
poor Sir Nevill— It’s plain he did n’t break off the 
engagement, otherwise I might know what to think. 
They seemed to have plenty of money. It could n’t 
be her father would n’t help her, whatever she did.” 

Toombe pursed his lips. “I don’t know,” he mused. 

“I ’ave n’t told you the worst, Mrs. Marston.” 
“Oh—” 

“Well, you ’n’ me both being settled and middle- 
aged perhaps, I ’ll tell you—only I would n’t wish for 
it to go any further.” 

“No, of course not 1 I would n’t dream—” 


OBLIGATIONS 


84 

^‘There was a baby in her arms, Mrs. Marston.” 

Heavy silence hung for a moment over the cozy 
meal. Then Mrs. Marston sighed deeply. 

‘‘How old?” she asked. 

“Ah, that I couldn’t tell you. Just a bundle in 
her arms. She kept smiling at it, and the jockey- 
person kept poking his finger into its face—quite 
intimate-seeming, they were. Miss O’Dare and the 
jockey.” 

“A Frenchman?” 

“No, English. With an ^orrible cockney accent, be¬ 
lieve me.” 

“She could n’t be married to a person like that. On 
the other hand, she could n’t—oh, it’s made me come 
all over queer, Mr. Toombe. What say we have a 
liqueur with our coffee?” 

“I’m agreeable—quite,” said Toombe. 

Over the coffee and its comforting accompaniment, 
he expanded still further. 

These two people—or three rather, counting the 
bundle in Virginia’s arms—had left the boat at St.- 
Cloud together with the Polytechnic, but immediately 
afterward Toombe had lost them. They went off up 
the hill in another direction, the jockey-looking person 
heavily burdened with parcels and a market-basket, 
Virginia carrying what was obviously her own baby. 

No, Toombe would n’t say she had seemed exactly 
unhappy. He fumbled in his mind for words to de¬ 
scribe her correctly, but finally gave it up. Her clothes 


OBLIGATIONS 


85 

—^yes, he could describe them and did so all over again; 
her hair, he said, looked sunburnt and not quite so 
tidy as it should, but that might have been the wind. 
Any one would have taken her for a lower middle- 
class Frenchwoman, as far as all that went. 

‘Well, I ^11 tell you,” he said. “She looked hungry 
and thin and not young, and there were sort of shadows 
on her cheeks—not exactly lines, you understand—and 
her hands were a little rough—” 

“Did she wear a wedding-ring?” 

Toombe shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. 
I don’t think so. I don’t know, really.” 

Mrs. Marston was provoked. 

“But if you noticed her hands, surely you’d have 
seen if she wore a ring.” 

“It was careless of me,” Toombe admitted. “I 
ought to have made a point of it. But you can’t think 
of everything, especially on a Polytechnic, and I did n’t 
like to stare too hard. It didn’t seem quite nice.” 

While this conversation was being carried on in the 
housekeeper’s room in the South Audley Street house, 
across in Westminster two other people were also dis¬ 
cussing Virginia. At least she was the topic about 
which most of their talk hovered, although ostensibly 
they had met for quite another reason. 


CHAPTER XIII 


M OLLIE SHAW’S husband had died that sum¬ 
mer, and Nevill, having been appointed guard¬ 
ian to her three children, had come back from India 
to see what he could do to help her. It was the night 
of his arrival, and they had dined together in her flat 
and were now in the drawing-room talking things over. 

Mollie made an attractive widow and bore her loss 
well. It was two months now since the sad event, and 
the first edge of grief had slightly dulled. Tom had 
left her comfortably off, though not so rich as she 
would have liked, and Nevill promised to take upon 
himself the cost of the two boys’ education. Chris¬ 
topher was going to his first school that autumn, and 
Mollie suffered the usual maternal qualms about it. 

‘‘Such a relief to have you here,” she said to Nevill, 
resting a pretty foot on the fender where it could be 
seen and get warmed at the same time. “And you ’re 
looking well, my dear. Much better than I—than I 
could possibly have hoped.” 

Nevill stirred restlessly. He knew what she meant. 
“Oh, I’ve been keeping fit, in one way or another,” 
he replied. “Had quite a lot of sport, as a matter of 
fact.” 


86 


OBLIGATIONS 


87 

*‘You Te as brown as a nigger/’ observed Mollie, 
studying him with lazy affection. ‘‘And aren’t you 
getting just a little fat?” 

“Hope not. I ’ve only put on half a stone since— 
since I went away.” 

“Two years ago, isn’t it? How time flies! Two 
years ago next month. We were in Paris that 
September.” 

Nevill winced, then turned abruptly and began to 
fumble with the contents of the cigarette-box. 

Mrs. Shaw reached out her hand. 

“Me, too, Nevill; and give me a light, please. . . . 
There’s a letter on my desk. I saved it for you to 
read. From Louise Downe. You remember her? 
It’s a year old now, but I thought it might interest 
you, and I did n’t want to send it to you when you were 
so far off. . . . Yes, that’s the one. I put it out 
before dinner. She and Hilbert were in Versailles— 
well, you can read for yourself.” 

Mollie puffed gently at her cigarette and fixed her 
gaze upon the fire. It was very still, except for the 
crackling of the sheets in Nevill’s hands. Then she 
heard him go back to her writing-table and lay the 
letter down again, and after that he walked to one of 
the windows. 

“Nevill, it does n’t hurt still, does it?” Mollie asked. 

There was no immediate response, and she turned 
and looked at him. 

The tense young face was drawn; the eyes, once so 


88 


OBLIGATIONS 


merry, looked suddenly haggard, and poor Nevill’s 
hands were clenched so tightly that to Mollie it sug¬ 
gested that he must be in acute physical pain. She 
started up with a little cry of remorse. 

“Oh, I did n’t mean . . . forgive me, Nevill! I 
thought by this time—why, look at me. Tom’s only 
been dead two months, and I shall never, never see 
him again—and you were n’t even married to her, 
Nevill.” 

“No,” he said hoarsely. “I was n’t even married 
to her. You say that letter’s a year old?” 

Mollie nodded. 

“I think I ’ll go across to Paris. She—she may 
be needing some one.” 

“I hope you won’t do anything stupid,” Mollie cried, 
her voice a little sharp. “She wouldn’t let her own 
parents help her—” 

“Wayne wouldn’t, you mean,” Nevill interrupted. 

“The man she eloped with? Nevill, you’ve never 
told me a thing, yet all the time I felt you knew. Poor 
Edith did n’t; that I’m sure. Oh, that dreadful 
morning, Nevill!—will you ever forget it?—when we 
hunted all over the hotel for her and were afraid we’d 
miss the train—” 

“We did miss it,” Nevill reminded her. 

“Yes, I know. And then came that note for Edith. 
Just a few lines to say she’d gone to Venice with a 
Nicholas Wayne and they were to be married. I 
shall never forget Edith wringing her hands and cry- 


OBLIGATIONS 


89 

ing, 'Who is Nicholas Wayne?’ If she said it once 
she said it a dozen times. And then Malcolm’s rush¬ 
ing off to Venice to try to find Virginia and coming 
back looking like a death’s-head to say she was 
married right enough, but her husband refused to let 
them do anything, and Virginia herself seemed quite 
satisfied. It simply broke the O’Dares up. Nevill, 
you must have known something. Who was the man ? 
Where did she get to know him?” 

Nevill looked weary. ^‘She’d known him all her 
life,” he said listlessly. 

‘'Don’t be absurd! I never cared for Virginia, but 
she was certainly straight enough where men were 
concerned. At least I should have said so. Well, ob¬ 
viously, she could n’t have been, although—” 

“Oh, Mollie, for heaven’s sake, stop! I can’t stand 
this. Don’t you see it’s—it’s distasteful to me? On 
the top of Mrs. Downe’s letter, too.” 

“I wish I had n’t shown it to you,” sighed Mollie. 

“I’d rather have seen it. If you can spare me for 
a few days, I think I ’ll run across to Paris to-morrow.” 

“What’s the good, Nevill? You’ll only make 
yourself unhappy.” 

“I am unhappy. Do you think I can rest if she’s in 
want? That letter—a whole year ago!—it reads as 
though she was up against it.” 

“What can you do?” 

There was a brief silence. Then Nevill said, “I 
don’t know what I can do until I’ve tried.” 


90 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘‘You probably won’t be able to find her.” 

“I think I shall. Fedor Chiostro will know where 
they are.” 

‘‘Chiostro? Why should he know?” 

Nevill shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Any¬ 
way, I can ask him.” 

“Did she meet that man at Chiostro’s studio ?” Mollie 
demanded alertly. 

Nevill had n’t meant to give away even so much of 
Virginia’s secret. “I tell you she’d known Wayne 
since she was a child,” he said. 

“He’s an artist of sorts and very lame. Malcolm 
found that much out. But it never occurred to Edith 
that Chiostro had anything to do with it. Nevill, I 
wish you’d tell me!” 

“To begin with, I can’t tell you anything, and I 
wouldn’t if I could. Just to give you something to 
chatter about. Oh, yes, you would! All over London. 
I know. Your ‘poor cousin’!” Nevill was passionate. 
“Jilted at the eleventh hour, for this, that, or the other. 
Do you think I give a hang because I was jilted? Do 
you think I’m feeling sorry for myself? Well, you ’re 
jolly mistaken; that’s what you are. I’m not the one 
who’s to be pitied. ... If only I’d guessed! Never 
mind. It’s too late now. I can only try to find her. 
And let me tell you, Mollie, if you dare to breathe a 
word, more than you ’ve done already—if you gabble 
to a living soul why I’ve gone over to Paris, I—I ’ll 
simply never forgive you; that’s all.” 


OBLIGATIONS 91 

‘^Please—my dear! Have you quite finished?’^ 

“Quite.” 

“That’s a blessing. Now I ’ve got just one thing 
to say. I hope you ’ll forgive me if I remind you of 
what I said just before you asked Virginia to marry 
you. I said—” 

“That she’d ruin my life,” Nevill supplemented. 
“Well, if it’s any satisfaction to you—which I can’t 
believe—she has. Ruined it completely. But not in 
the way you predicted. You see, she didn’t marry 
me.” 

Mollie gave it up. Nevill was really impossible. 
Yet her heart yearned over him. It was dreadful to 
discover that he had n’t recovered from his infatua¬ 
tion. Most men did recover, particularly when they 
had been treated in so humiliating and contemptuous 
a fashion. It would have been a difficult thing to live 
down where pride was concerned, but that surely 
should have hardened his affections. Nevill should 
have hated Virginia O’Dare for making him look such 
a fool; but it was obvious that he still cared for 
her. 

And there was some mystery about the affair, quite 
apart from Virginia’s reckless and inexplicable con¬ 
duct. It seemed almost as though Nevill knew why 
she had done it, as though he understood to the point 
of complete forgiveness. Of course it was a lie if 
Virginia had told him that the Wayne man was a 
lifelong friend of hers; even were it possibly true— 


92 


OBLIGATIONS 


which it was n’t—that did n’t excuse her for the way 
in which she had treated Nevill. 

Slow tears trickled down Mollie’s cheeks. Nevill 
was a grown man, and she could n’t prevent him from 
making a complete idiot of himself if he was deter- 
mined upon it. She thought of her two little boys and 
that one day they would be grown up and at the mercy 
of a world filled with devouring women, women who 
would pretend to love them and then hurt them cruelly, 
fling them away, flaunt them . . . oh, no, Christopher 
and little Tom were far too sensible to fall into such 
traps. Besides, she was their mother; unfortunately 
she was n’t Nevill’s. If only she could lace Nevill into 
a strait-jacket and set him down to bread and water 
for a week. If only she had n’t shown him Louise 
Downe’s letter! Yes, that had been pure folly—to 
show him the letter before she’d sounded him as to his 
feelings. If only Tom hadn’t died! Heavens, how 
she missed Tom! Wise, friendly, tolerant Tom— 
but even he had liked Virginia O’Dare, liked her 
immensely. 

“Mollie dear, don’t cry. I did n’t mean to be sav¬ 
age with you.” 

Nevill caressed her hair with an awkward, brotherly 
gesture. 

‘Tt does n’t matter. It’s only because I—I feel 
sorry for you,” said Mollie between chokes. 

‘‘You need n’t,” he replied. 


CHAPTER XIV 


W HAT people might be tempted to call the inevi¬ 
table had happened to Virginia O’Dare. It 
was impossible for her not to have made a deep im¬ 
pression upon Nicholas Wayne even on the occasion 
of their first meeting, although he had shown it only by 
asking or demanding to see her again. 

There was, to begin with, the mere fact of her 
beauty, but time would prove that physical loveliness 
was by no means Virginia’s most potent attraction. 
Greatest of all, perhaps, was the charm of the things 
she left unsaid; her little lapses into eloquent silence, 
letting her eyes speak or question for her; her troubled, 
reticent attitude toward life, which absorbed her so 
completely that she was careless of her appearance and 
always wholly unaware of the effect she had on others. 

Often in the old days her mother had said, '^Some- 
times I feel like shaking Jinny . . . but it wouldn’t 
do any good.” 

It was Nevill who actually had shaken her—by the 
power of his love. She had loved him so dearly in 
return, been so happy, that it did not seem in the least 
strange to lose it all. In her curious consciousness 
after that meeting in Chiostro’s attic studio, Nevill and 
93 


94 


OBLIGATIONS 


Nicholas Wayne changed places. It was Nevill now 
who was the dream, Nicholas the reality. 

Sometimes she puzzled to remember what it was 
they had said on the occasion of the second meeting. 
Neither Chiostro nor his wife was there, only Nicholas. 
He hadn’t touched her or tried to kiss her, but he 
did n’t take his eyes off her face once, and there had 
been one time when he laughed—not in that ugly, jeer¬ 
ing way, but spontaneously, naturally—and she had 
been thrilled with a queer emotion that flooded her eyes 
with tears. 

How accurately she had filled in for herself the 
details of his story 1 His mother was dead now. He 
had no one. The man who had taken an interest in 
him and his talent when he was still lying on his back 
in the hospital, and had sent him abroad to study, was 
dead also. And here he was, living precariously in 
his shabby attic, sometimes getting a bit of copying or 
renovating to do, selling a few oil-sketches now and 
then for scarcely more by a franc or two than it cost to 
produce them. Chiostro had made his acquaintance 
when he was copying in the Louvre, and in offering to 
share the expenses of the studio for a while had given 
him temporary affluence. 

“I can do great things, if I want to,” he said to 
Virginia. “At least Chiostro thinks so. But what’s 
the use? A fellow like me has to have something 
more in his life than just art—I don’t care what 
Chiostro says. A woman, perhaps. . . . Oh, yes, 


OBLIGATIONS 


95 

there are plenty of women in Paris, but—” He broke 
off with an impatient gesture. ‘Tt’s good to talk with 
you, Jinny.’^ Quite simply he called her by the old 
name. ^‘You ’re a—a wonder-girl. And you ’re 
afraid of me; you hate me. I’m repulsive to you, 
and I’m not surprised. I hate myself most of the 
time.” 

Then he had laughed, gently, sweetly, never taking 
his eyes from her face; and she had been thrilled to 
the point of tears. This was the man she had broken. 
How could she mend him? 

She asked him in that hesitating way of hers, as 
though the thought behind the question was difficult to 
express as she wanted to express it: 

“Could I ... do anything? I wish I could. 
Nicholas, I’d give my life if it could make you well 
and happy. You see, I ’ve always thought of you, 
never forgotten that it was I who—who hurt you.” 

“You’d give your life —youT he exclaimed. 

A passionate flame leaped into his dark eyes. 

“Yes; only tell me what to do.” She was thinking 
that after Nevill and she were married, they could have 
him at Davies Hall and interest people in his work. 
If Chiostro thought it was good, it must be good. 

“Then give me your life,” Nicholas said. “Marry 
me. I’ve got enough to keep us for a couple of 
months. We ’ll go to Venice first. But of course your 
people would n’t consent. You’d have to elope with 
me, Jinny.” 


96 


OBLIGATIONS 


He watched her narrowly as he spoke, his voice half 
jesting, yet behind it he was tensely serious. It was 
difficult to guess what was passing in Virginia’s mind. 
He must have surprised, startled her, yet her expres¬ 
sion did not change perceptibly. 

She returned his gaze for a moment, then said, 
‘‘Very well, Nicholas.” 

He was more surprised by her reply than apparently 
she had been at his question. 

Abruptly she got up from the chair in which she had 
been sitting, and fastened her chinchilla collar. “I 
must be going now. Some one is waiting for me at 
the corner. We ’re staying at the Regina and plan¬ 
ning to go back to London Monday, so if you ’ll write 
telling me just what to do, I—I ’ll do it.” 

And that was about the most important part of the 
interview, which had taken place on a Thursday. On 
Saturday she heard from him, and he told her to meet 
him early on Monday morning and at what station. 
She was there with a suit-case and a small dressing- 
bag. All along, Nicholas had told himself that she 
would n’t come; but at the back of his mind something 
assured him that she would keep her word, and for the 
life of him he could n’t guess why. 

Why —whyf Chiostro had told him bits about her 
but had n’t seen fit to mention Nevill Davies. She was 
the child of well-to-do parents, a society darling, ac¬ 
cording to Chiostro; and everything about Virginia’s 
appearance bore out that description. 


OBLIGATIONS 


97 

‘Well, we won’t live on her father, if that’s what 
she thinks,” Nicholas said to himself with a gruesome 
touch of humor. '‘And, my God, we ’ll be poor! . . . 
Why did she agree to marry me?” 

Then he shrugged his shoulders. There were girls 
in the Quartier who—^but never mind. In spite of his 
dreadful lameness, he could have picked and chosen 
from a very catholic assortment. “Perhaps,” he 
thought, “she has fallen in love with me at first sight, 
just as I did with her.” 

As time wore on, that idea exercised a fearful fasci¬ 
nation over him. 

Virginia was of age, and they managed to get 
married in Venice just a lick ahead of Malcolm 
O’Dare’s arrival. There had been nothing Malcolm 
could do. The Waynes were housed in a small but 
comfortable hotel, and the bridegroom, except for his 
lameness, made a fairly presentable appearance. He 
said he could take care of Virginia and meant to do 
so without family assistance; and Virginia said little 
or nothing beyond the fact that she was sorry to have 
given so much trouble. Her grieved eyes implored 
her father to forgive her, but just then Malcolm was 
too angry to be gentle. For the first time, Nicholas 
learned that Virginia had been on the point of marry¬ 
ing another man, and that her elopement had stirred 
up more of a hornets’ nest than had been apparent. 
What could Malcolm do but go back to Edith and re¬ 
port that their mad daughter was at least married and 


OBLIGATIONS 


98 

they must cancel the arrangements for her previous 
nuptial agreement ? There was absolutely nothing else 
to do. And the fellow would n’t disclose his financial 
position beyond a stiff assertion that he could provide 
for his own wife, thank you. Nothing from Virginia 
except that she was sorry, but she had known Wayne 
for a long time, though only having recently determined 
to plunge into matrimony with him. 

As Mollie Shaw said to Nevill, it broke the O’Dares 
up completely. Malcolm resigned his post at the em¬ 
bassy, and they went home. It was their consolation, 
of course, that they still had each other, but they 
missed Virginia more than either of them would have 
thought possible when they had arranged for her mar¬ 
riage to Nevill. Now she was lost—poor, lost Vir¬ 
ginia—flopping blindly out of the warm home nest 
into such peril as the world holds for sparse-feathered 
fledglings. 

There was the honeymoon in Venice, and all the 
money was spent by the time they got back to Paris. 
Chiostro had gone, and when Nicholas was offered 
some restoring work at Versailles, they got rid of the 
attic studio and went to live in a cafe near the palace. 
It was during that period that Mollie Shaw’s friend 
caught a passing glimpse of Virginia, and her report of 
it spoke as eloquently as any more detailed description 
of the poverty of the young couple. But the work was 
steady enough to count upon for another two years; 
and by the following spring the Waynes had saved a 


OBLIGATIONS 


99 


little, and Nicholas found a cottage at St.-Cloud with 
a small garage which he converted into a studio, and 
into it they moved with their few possessions. There, 
in May, the baby was born, a little girl whom it was 
Virginia’s whim to naiue Cherry. In the late summer 
of that year one recalls that Mr. Toombe saw her with 
the baby on a Seine boat and in the company of a little 
man accurately described as having the appearance of 
a broken-down jockey. 

So now it was October. 


CHAPTER XV 


W ITH some dim idea of making both ends meet, 
the'Waynes had taken in two lodgers. They 
were father and daughter, and their names were Lonny 
and Marietta Collins. 

The story of Lonny is a stale one to members of 
the racing fraternity, an oft-repeated tale in which 
only the name of the hero changes. Like most jockeys, 
he had begun his career as a stable-boy, and thence he 
had gone up and up and up and could tell you some 
wonderful and not too untruthful tales of his career, 
an amazing career that reached its zenith in the early 
nineteen hundreds when he rode Lord St. Bevans’s 
famous Scarsdale Pride to victory in the Grand Prix 
and thereafter could have had any mount he chose for 
any and all of the great racing events. 

But—alas! 

Lonny himself was painfully loquacious or very 
silent on the subject of his downfall, according to the 
amount of liquor he had or had not partaken of when 
the matter came up for discussion. Without going 
into unnecessary details, it is enough to state that he 
fell ignominiously from his high place, was disqualified 
by the Jockey Club for “pulling,” and thereafter picked 

lOO 


OBLIGATIONS 


lOI 


up his living where and how he could. At the present 
moment he was hostler-gardener-handyman to a French 
doctor, who drove a rattling little trap but was think¬ 
ing of getting a motor-car, when no doubt Lonny 
Collins would be sacked, not shining as either a gar¬ 
dener or a handyman, and possessing not the faintest 
glimmer of intelligence when it came to machinery. 
It was this little man that Toombe, the butler, had 
seen with Virginia on the steamboat. 

Undersized, red-faced, battered, and.grizzled; a bit 
bowed of leg, affecting gaiters, a peaked cap, and a 
neckerchief—^that was Lonny. Generally smiling and 
always good-tempered even under adversity, a friendly 
gleam in his watery blue eyes, the poor little fellow 
was cursed with a fiend of a daughter, a young virago 
who would never let him forget that her mother, a 
French music-hall comedienne, had married him for his 
money and position and been fearfully let down. What 
had become of Madame Collins, Lonny did not know, 
but he possessed Marietta—the peppery fruit of their 
union—and there must have been times when he secretly 
wished that she would go the way of her mother and 
leave him in peace. Lonny and Marietta had but one 
thing in common, they both adored Virginia’s baby, 
but even this could be a source of discord, since jealousy 
marred their passion for the innocent and gave Vir¬ 
ginia more trouble than gratification. 

The Collinses occupied three attic rooms in Les 
Prairies, the chalet Nicholas had taken at St.-Cloud, 


102 


OBLIGATIONS 


and Marietta did dressmaking, either at home or going 
out by the day. She was a red-haired girl with sloe- 
black eyes, a sullen but somehow attractive mouth, and 
an incurable heartache. Nicholas Wayne suspected 
her of a secret attachment for himself and would not 
have endured her presence in his house except for 
Lonny, whom he liked and who was his devoted slave. 
But Marietta did not cross Nicholas’s path very often. 
She kept to her own rooms for the most part, when 
not out on business, and Nicholas himself, who was at 
Versailles four days of the week, worked in the garage- 
studio when he was at home. A little garden went 
with the chalet, and next door was the doctor’s house 
where Lonny Collins was nominally employed. In 
effect, whenever the doctor’s back was turned, Lonny 
was through the gap in the hedge and keeping Nicholas 
company should the latter be working at home, or else 
entreating Virginia to let him mind the baby for her. 

Behind the chalet were three big meadows where 
cattle grazed, and beyond were a little stream and a 
gray church. Sitting in the garden with the baby on 
her knees, her eyes half closed, Virginia could fancy 
with a slight effort of imagination that she was back 
in the Little Rock of her early childhood. She was 
always thinking of those days and of the accident of 
long ago which had resulted in her present condition of 
being—she, the wife of that Nicholas Wayne who had 
been left for dead under the cherry-tree, the wife of 
Nicholas with his baby on her knees, living humbly in 


OBLIGATIONS 


103 


a suburb of Paris, far from home, friends, and kindred. 

Ah, that was n’t quite fair; she had her husband and 
her baby, and Lonny Collins was a faithful friend 
to them all three. Marietta? Virginia gave little 
thought to Marietta. The young French cockney did 
not like her especially, but tried to be amiable on the 
baby’s account. The rent-money of course was useful, 
and Marietta did her best to pay promptly, although 
Lonny himself gave no helping hand in those transac¬ 
tions. It was no secret where his own wages went, 
but when he was on one of his rare fits of abstinence he 
would give Marietta a few francs toward their food 
and buy extravagant presents, which always roused 
her to fury. Otherwise—well, if you have n’t got 
it, if it’s been sunk in the wine-shop where the neces¬ 
sities of life come from, you can’t give; that’s all. 

Virginia knew that Lonny Collins was not an admi¬ 
rable character and that Marietta was, but she loved 
Lonny and did not care greatly for his daughter, so 
proving—as you choose to look at it—that there is or 
is not a law of compensation. 

,Thus on a sunny afternoon in October. It was a 
Saturday, and Nicholas Wayne was busy in his im¬ 
provised studio on a piece of hack work that he 
detested. The doctor next door had conceived the 
notion of acquiring a portrait of himself, and for this 
purpose was prepared to part with two hundred francs, 
a large bag of potatoes—now being harvested by the 
reluctant Lonny Collins—and a small bag of pears. It 


OBLIGATIONS 


104 

was a commission which Nicholas, being a man of 
family, could not afford to refuse. The doctor had 
a bushy beard parted in the middle, round eyes, and a 
conspicuous watch-chain. He was hard to please, and 
in this instance one painted not for art’s sake, but for 
the baby’s winter wardrobe, a pram—if the second¬ 
hand one they’d been looking for could be found at 
the price they could pay—and for wholesome fruit 
and vegetables. 

Only these hard facts kept Nicholas docile, for the 
doctor not only gave advice on how he and the watch- 
chain should come out on canvas, but he was full of 
conversation on other matters, principally concerning 
the lazy incompetence of Lonny Collins and how soon 
he was going to buy his car and get rid of the fellow. 

Nicholas, never too genial at the best of times, and 
on this occasion not feeling very well, grew sour and 
silent, and longed to make a target for a fat blob of 
paint of the complacent beard that seemed to baffle his 
most determined efforts at satisfactory transmutation. 
Something had been done with the watch-chain, but the 
beard stubbornly remained merely a bush with a pearly 
white path down the middle. The doctor, blessed with 
more patience than patients this sunny afternoon, cooed 
away to Nicholas with monotonous persistence, in¬ 
terrupting himself every fifteen minutes or so to hop 
down from the model’s throne and give free advice, 
after another squint at his beard as interpreted by 
Nicholas Wayne. And Nicholas grew broodier and 


OBLIGATIONS 


105 


broodier, until it was likely at any moment he 
hatch out something terrific which would completely 
imperil the pram and the baby’s short-coating, to say 
nothing of all the pears and potatoes they’d promised 
themselves. 

Marietta was out marketing for Sunday. Lonny 
was over in the doctor’s garden industriously at work 
digging the aforesaid potatoes, his labor considerably 
stimulated by the fact that his employer had an almost 
unobstructed view of him through the wide-open door 
of the garage-studio. Just a low hedge separated 
them, but although Lonny knew that the doctor was 
saying uncomplimentary things about him, he could nT 
hear what was being said unless he rested from toil, 
and so it was rather a vicious circle. 

The baby slept on a pillow in a soap-box, the latter 
arranged on two chairs near the back door of the 
cottage; and Virginia—always behindhand with her 
housework—was down on her hands and knees scrub¬ 
bing the stone floor of the kitchen-parlor. It was, in 
fact, the only decent-sized room in the cottage. A 
modern cook-stove had been set into the old-fashioned 
chimney-nook, which was further improved with a 
lining of crude blue tiles. The furniture was scanty, 
and Virginia apparently did not know how to make 
the most of it. There was a worn couch that would 
have looked better with a fresh muslin cover of how¬ 
ever cheap material, and a big deal table that a French¬ 
woman would have had scoured as white as her hand. 


io6 


OBLIGATIONS 


There were a few chairs, uncomfortable-looking little 
things with scarcely more than an edge to sit on; a 
dresser that needed a coat of paint; dishes that did n’t 
match; a three-legged stool by the fire; and, tacked up 
thickly against the whitewashed wall, various sketches 
of Nicholas’s, mostly of Virginia. 

Dozens of ethereally conceived Virginias watched the 
material Virginia on her knees struggling with the 
scrubbing-brush, and wishing that she could afford a 
new pail—^the old one having gone back on them to 
the point where it refused mending—instead of having 
to use the baby’s bath for this unsanitary purpose. Of 
course she’d scrub the bath out afterward, but Vir¬ 
ginia was a very poor scrubber, and she knew it. 
That was probably one reason why Marietta Collins 
scorned her. 

To watch Virginia at work on that kitchen floor 
was painful. She had on a print dress, which had 
started the day fresh, and was now all wet and draggled 
about the edges. Her sleeves were rolled up to the 
elbows, and it was a little shocking to see where the 
firm white flesh of the forearms lost its satiny hue 
and texture in grimed crimson just above the wrists. 
Virginia’s once beautiful hands had grown coarse with 
thready black lines, and her finger-nails were blunt 
and broken. 

As she worked, she thought of German Sophie, the 
Gipsy-threatening servant of her childhood, and a re¬ 
luctant, half-envious admiration of Sophie welled up 


OBLIGATIONS 


107 

in her consciousness. Sophie had always done every¬ 
thing so perfectly. 

“When I’m through with this floor, it ’ll look worse 
than when I began,” muttered Virginia. 

But she kept at it. Like lots of other things in her 
life, it was something to be done. When she was 
finished she would have to change her dress and go 
out and market, as Marietta Collins was doing at this 
moment; and it would be late and the pick of every¬ 
thing gone. She’d have to ask Nicholas for money, 
and she knew he’d be in a bad temper by now. Still, 
he’d give it to her, but she wished he would n’t always 
make her ask him for it, and then perhaps remind her 
that she’d had twenty francs only on Wednesday, and 
was it really necessary to pay three francs fifty a cake 
for the baby’s soap, and how he was going to see 
them through next week was beyond his power of 
imagination. 

Still, he’d give it to her. He was paid yesterday. 
She knew that. Everything was so horribly expensive, 
and his “salary” did n’t go very far. He got less for 
his work at the palace than a night-watchman. 

What should she buy for to-morrow’s dinner ? The 
cheaper meats always took such a lot of clever cooking! 
When she tried a casserole dish, either the fire went 
out through trying to keep it low, or, if too hot, the 
meat galloped to a toughness that threatened to break 
their teeth and frequently did break Virginia’s heart. 

If only she could afford some really decent chops! 


io 8 


OBLIGATIONS 


She had mastered the art of chops to Nicholas’s not 
too exacting taste. He liked them burned on the out¬ 
side and raw in the middle. Virginia could do them 
that way. In fact, it was the only way she could do 
them, short of steaming them to an unappetizing limp¬ 
ness, which Nicholas didn’t care for. 

Perhaps to-day they could run to chops. A great 
deal depended upon how Monsieur le Docteur’s por¬ 
trait was going. . . . Oh, heavens, what a nuisance life 
was, so filled with petty, interfering things, when one 
would like a little leisure for mental reconstruction! 

She was rather tired and hot. For a long time, 
every minute or so, she had to reach up with her wrist 
and push away a loosened strand of hair that kept 
falling across her eyes. Finally the obvious occurred 
to her, and she laughed sadly at her own lack of in¬ 
telligence. But she had n’t thought of the obvious 
until all her hair began tumbling down, and some of 
the pins scattered on the floor and caught in the cloth 
that she was using to sop up the dirty water. She 
pricked her finger on one of them, and a drop of blood 
oozed out. 

“What an idiot I am 1” 

Yet in the old days, although people had argued a 
lot about Virginia, no one—not even Mollie Shaw— 
would have said that she was lazy or untidy. Self- 
absorbed, uncaring about many things that mattered— 
but not such a feckless young woman as this picture 
has seemed to paint. 


OBLIGATIONS 


109 


“What an idiot!” she panted, sitting on the floor 
with her damp knees doubled under her. She pinned 
up her hair again, rather vicious about making it 
secure this time. The lock that had primarily offended 
got wound around a hair-pin all of its own, and the 
end of the pin was bent, so that there should be no 
future nonsense. 

“Once I wanted to be a trained nurse,” Virginia 
commented to herself, as she resumed the cleansing 
operations. “Well, mother had more sense than I 
had.” 

A little lump came suddenly into her throat. “I M 
like to see’ mother,” she thought, her lips moving in 
a soft muttering. “I'd like her to see Cherry. It 
seems so funny to think of her being a grandmother. 
. . . I wonder where they are? Perhaps I ought to 
write.” 

The red wrist went up to her eyes now. There was 
a blur obscuring them. 

“I’m glad she does n’t know. I’m glad nobody 
knows. Not that I mind; only they’d feel sorry for 
me, and I could n’t stand that. They’d want to help 
—and that would be . . . unbearable I” 

Slosh, slosh, went the scrubbing-brush. Little 
muddy puddles accumulated and were wrung back into 
the tub through the medium of the soppy cloth. The 
water ought to be changed, but it would have to be 
fetched from a pump in the garden, and Virginia was 
developing a backache. Such dirty water I But long 


no 


OBLIGATIONS 


ago she had got over any squeamishness about plung¬ 
ing her outraged hands into unpleasant things. And 
never once had she committed the weakness of feeling 
sorry for herself. Irritable on occasions, yes—^but 
that had always been through sheer physical fatigue, 
like the time when the baby was only two months old 
and had suddenly developed a taste for sitting up all 
night and voicing an obscure grievance that no amount 
of patient attention could appease. Virginia had borne 
this inquisition for two weeks until she basely fell to 
the first aid that was to be got out of a “dummy,*' 
hygienists notwithstanding, and at the possible risk of 
spoiling baby's mouth, as everybody who had n't a 
howling infant of his own predicted. But she had 
been a little irritable then, when Nicholas—^who had 
made up a temporary bed for himself in the studio— 
commented upon her slowness in getting through house¬ 
hold tasks and being late with supper one evening when 
he came home particularly hungry. 

Yes, she had been very sharp with Nicholas on that 
occasion, and a little sharp with Marietta Collins, who 
was among those who insisted upon the ill after-effects 
of the “dummy." Through that time of trial the 
doctor next door had been of great comfort. He up¬ 
held Virginia. Lonny and Marietta had between them 
spoiled the baby, and he told Nicholas that unless his 
wife got some relief she would go mad. 

Oh, well, that tiresome episode was over now. If 
Cherry decided to sit up after other people’s bedtime. 


OBLIGATIONS 


III 


Virginia deceived her with the false assurance that 
she was imbibing nourishment, and all was peaceful. 
Lonny, for one, admitted that the change was refresh¬ 
ing. He, also, had lost a good deal of sleep, his room 
being directly over Virginia’s. 

The church-bell across the meadows chimed four, 
and Virginia glanced at the alarm-clock on the mantel. 
A quarter to four, by the alarm-clock. Always wrong. 
Nothing —nothing could make it keep time. Oh, well, 
there was the church clock to go by. Why worry over 
a thing like that? She wrung out her cloth for the 
last time and gave the section of floor within her ra¬ 
dius a final smear. 

At that moment some one tapped at the door. 

^'Entrez,” called Virginia, still on her knees, hoping 
it might be the baker, who came when he felt like it. 

There was a brief interval of hesitation; then the 
latch was lifted, and the door opened. Framed against 
the bright hues of the autumn garden stood Nevill 
Davies—Nevill, looking as smart as paint in a gray 
lounge-suit and overcoat and the newest thing in 
bowlers; Nevill, the traveler from a distant world that 
had ceased to exist for Virginia Wayne. 

She had n’t the faintest idea what a painful, not to 
say embarrassing impression she made upon him, as 
though he had been stabbed and humiliated in a single 
blow. He had been prepared for a change both in 
herself and her circumstances, but he had n’t been pre¬ 
pared for a Virginia on her knees scrubbing the stone 


112 


OBLIGATIONS 


floor of such a poverty-stricken room. The tragedy 
of her struck him squarely between the eyes. He did 
not know what to say; for a wild moment, he wished 
he hadn^t come. This was ... he could not find 
the right word for it. ‘‘Damnable” sufficed as well 
as any. 

Virginia scrambled to her feet. She felt peculiarly 
helpless, aware not so much of the change in herself 
and her surroundings as of the fact that when Nevill 
and she had last parted there was deception on her side. 
That Sunday night in the Hotel Regina she had let 
him kiss her at the door of her room, let him believe 
that to-morrow they were all going back to London 
together, and that he and she were to be married in 
less than a fortnight. Of course she had written to 
him from Venice and explained. Nevill was the only 
person in the world who really understood why she 
had eloped with Nicholas Wayne, and she felt that he 
must have forgiven her long ago, but now there was 
something in his expression that dismayed her, that 
made her not so sure that he either understood or 
forgave. 

“Nevill—this ts a surprise,” she said slowly, after 
they had stared at each other for so long that it seemed 
weird to be standing there like that in utter, stupefied 
silence. 

Her voice apparently woke him up. He began a 
hasty explanation in the old, offhand Nevill way. 

“I ^m in Paris for a few days. Ran into Chiostro 


OBLIGATIONS 


II13 

at the International Club, and he told me you were 
living here. Thought I’d look you up . . . such a 
jolly afternoon, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, yes, we ’ve been having lovely weather. More 
like September. Do come in, Nevill. It’s awfully 
nice to see you again. Sit down, will you ? I ’ll call 
Nicholas. He’s in the studio. Wait a minute—just 
let me get this thing out of the way.” 

She began dragging at the tub of dirty water, and 
Nevill—fastidious, elegant Nevill—dashed forward to 
help her. 

“That’s too heavy for you,” he protested. “What 
do you want done with it?” 

Virginia’s lips trembled. “Never mind. Let it 
stay where it is.” 

And now she was trembling all over. She put up 
her hands—her poor, reddened, work-stained hands— 
and smoothed her untidy hair. How awful she must 
look! Her blue and white calico dress, all draggled 
and wet at the hem—Nevill had never seen her like 
this. He must be wondering. She smiled the old 
adorable Virginia smile, but instead of flooding her 
face with sunshine it merely lit up shadows; and her 
eyes, sunken with fatigue, had the blank, bewildered 
look of a starving creature. 

“You see—” she said with a helpless gesture. “You 
see, Nevill—-I was n’t expecting any one. It’s Satur¬ 
day, and I’m a little behind with my work. I know 
I’m an awful scarecrow, but if you ’ll just give me a 


OBLIGATIONS 


114 

moment to change—and then I ’ll put on the kettle and 
call Nicholas, and we ’ll have some tea—” 

Nevill caught hold of one of the reddened wrists and 
drew her toward him. In spite of his sunburn, he 
looked deathly pale. 

“I don’t want to see the fellow,” he said angrily, 
man that—that would let this happen to you 1 My 
God, you must know how I love you, that it wasn’t 
to end with me just because you ran away with some¬ 
body else. You miist know. The sort of love I gave 
you—look at me, Virginia!” 

He was holding both her hands now, and Virginia’s 
shoulders heaved miserably. She began to choke and 
sob. 

“Don’t, Nevill—don’t make it any worse. You 
know how much I cared, too—^you know why . . . 
this happened.” 

A light step sounded in the passage leading to the 
scullery; and Virginia turned to see who it was, her 
hands still clasped by Nevill, twisting her head patheti¬ 
cally like a trapped bird. Her vision was blurred with 
tears, but she saw that it was Marietta Collins, trim 
Marietta of the sulky mouth and scowling contemp¬ 
tuous eyes, with a basket on her arm and her flaming 
red hair lighting up the scullery passage with an effect 
of fire. 

“Excuse me,” said Marietta, “but the baby’s awake, 
Mrs. Wayne. I thought you might like to know.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


115 

Little squeals came from the soap-box in the gar¬ 
den—neglected Cherry demanding her mother and 
getting ready to be really peevish about it if some¬ 
thing did n’t happen soon. 


CHAPTER XVI 


N EVILL wanted to go, to rush off blindly from 
all these terrible things that broke his heart, but 
he felt chained. He simply couldn't tear himself 
away, although one part of him struggled so hard for 
freedom. If only he could go out of that beastly place 
and by closing the door behind him convince himself 
that nothing of the sort existed! 

The fact of Nicholas Wayne was bad enough, and 
Virginia worn and exhausted by poverty was some¬ 
thing not to be borne; but a baby! He had n’t thought 
of there being a baby to link Virginia even more firmly 
to the impossible man she had hypnotized herself into 
marrying. If people could be killed by an idea, Nevill 
would have expired on the spot. 

He sat down on the shabby sofa and stared vacantly 
at the sketches of Virginia; so many of them as he 
remembered her; one with the very same chinchilla 
toque and collar she had worn when—fool that he 
was!—he went with her to the door of the house in 
the Rue Genevieve, her head held a little to one side, 
her chin tucked against the soft fur. The Virginia 
of two years ago, that one. But Wayne had sketched 
merely a pretty girl, a smirking, red-lipped magazine- 
116 


OBLIGATIONS 


117 

cover. Virginia’s lips were n’t red, nor were her eyes 
that bright, amazing blue. How could Nevill know 
that that particular sketch had been done with a view 
to its acceptance as a magazine-cover? And been re¬ 
jected, which is another chapter of the same story. 

He heard her moving about outside, and then in 
the next room; heard her talking in low tones to the 
baby. Presently the red-haired girl came in and, cast¬ 
ing a sulky look at Nevill, busied herself with the fire. 
Her presence and appearance puzzled him. If she 
were a servant, why had Virginia been scrubbing the 
floor ? Her dress did n’t suggest that she was a serv¬ 
ant. It was rather a pretentious dress of some brown 
silky material, very short in the skirt; and she wore 
silk stockings to match—at least, they had the look of 
silk—and absurdly high-heeled shoes. There was no 
way for Nevill to tell that Marietta was merely a 
lodger who had kindly offered to help out in this un¬ 
expected social crisis. 

He did not speak to her nor she to him. She moved 
about deftly, seeming somehow in her quick, sure man¬ 
ner to cast reproach upon Virginia’s haphazard house¬ 
keeping. There was no butter, and Marietta fetched 
some from her own larder. After looking about with 
an air of annoyance, she went out again and this time 
fetched bread and a pot of jam. Half a cake was 
discovered in a tin box on the dresser, and this she set 
with the other things on the table, though it was plain 
that she did not think too highly of it. 


ii8 


OBLIGATIONS 


When the kettle began to steam she made tea, but 
by this time Nevill—having removed his scrutiny from 
the sketches—had grown critical of Marietta’s ex¬ 
cellence. He felt he would like to tell her that her 
way of making tea was all wrong. She had n’t even 
warmed the pot, and he was n’t sure that the water 
had actually been boiling. These details would not 
have impressed him except for the fact that in some 
subtle way the red-haired girl had conveyed contempt 
for Virginia. Nevill longed to point out to her that 
she herself fell far short of perfection in the simple 
matter of brewing a pot of tea. Was she French or 
English? He couldn’t decide. She had spoken to 
Virginia in English, but there had been a curious ac¬ 
cent, French strongly tinged with cockney. 

She went into the scullery again and was heard talk¬ 
ing to Virginia, saying that she would take the baby 
if the latter had finished her own meal. A delicate 
shiver ran over Nevill. Virginia with a child at her 
breast, another man’s child. It was incredible that he 
himself should be sitting here enduring such revela¬ 
tions. Yet they must be endured because he had to 
help Virginia; that was what he’d come for. Some 
way must be found. 

Then dragging footsteps sounded outside, and a tall, 
black-haired man leaning heavily on two sticks entered 
the room through the scullery passage. Of course 
Nevill knew at once who he was, but he did not know 
that Nicholas was fully aware of his own identity as 


OBLIGATIONS 


119 

Virginia’s jilted lover. In any case, the meeting was 
bound to be awkward, although Nicholas did not help 
to make it so. His task that afternoon had terminated 
happily. Monsieur le Docteur’s beard had been 
brought to a satisfactory conclusion, a far better thing 
than had at one time promised to develop; there would 
be no more sittings, merely a little brightening of the 
background. 

Virginia had rushed out to tell Nicholas who was 
here, and he had neither detained nor questioned her, 
just nodded with that tight-lipped smile of his that 
always betokened a slight sense of triumph. Perhaps 
he was thinking of the happy ending to the trials with 
the doctor’s portrait; perhaps he was thinking of quite 
a different sort of triumph. 

"‘All right, kid,” he said. “I ’ll be in as soon as I’ve 
scraped my hands.” 

And now with one of those freshly cleansed hands 
he was greeting Nevill Davies and saying how pleased 
he was to meet an old friend of Virginia’s, limping 
aside to make way for the scornful Marietta, who had 
decided that it was about time somebody removed the 
tub of scrub-water and that she might as well do it 
herself. On this occasion the chivalrous Nevill offered 
no assistance. In spite of her high-heeled shoes, the 
sulky, red-haired young person seemed competent to 
attend to the matter. 

“Call your father. Marietta,” Nicholas said, “and 
both of you have tea with us,” 


120 


OBLIGATIONS 


Considering that most of the repast had been pro¬ 
vided by Marietta, this was kind and condescending 
of Nicholas; but possibly he thought things would go 
off better with her assistance and Lonny’s. He was not 
without his secret misgivings. The sharply sudden 
appearance of this Sir Nevill Davies could mean only 
one thing, that Virginia’s former lover was n’t yet re¬ 
signed in his mind to having lost her; and Nicholas 
himself had n’t quite mastered the mystery of how it 
happened that Nevill had lost her. 

At first it had seemed to Virginia’s husband that she 
was the victim of one of those quick, inexplicable 
passions to which some women are subject, that she 
had been overwhelmed by the fantastic in him and 
given herself in the wayward frenzy of the moment. 
He had thought to teach her a lesson—a lesson, indeed, 
for all women—^by giving her an experience of life 
both harsh and grinding, just to show that he him¬ 
self was in dead earnest. But Jinny had n’t broken 
under it. She had n’t once so much as peeped “Help 1” 
Everything was all right, the poverty and the un¬ 
accustomed drudgery, the doing without until one dis¬ 
covered how really few necessities there are in life— 
she had taken everything as it came. And quite soon 
Nicholas discovered that it was n’t because she was 
madly in love with him, nor because she believed him 
to be an overwhelming genius. There was nothing to 
which he could lay hand in accounting for her. She 
had presented an enigma which until now he had ac- 


OBLIGATIONS 


121 


cepted without attempting to solve. Perhaps he could 
learn something by observing what effect this slick, 
smart-looking young Davies fellow had on her. 

Lonny Collins came in, fresh from the pump and 
awed into a becoming silence. For all his past glo¬ 
ries, Lonny was still old-fashioned and recognized his 
betters when he met them. Thirty-five years ago he 
had been a lad in the training-stables then maintained 
by Nevill’s father, but he did n’t see fit to mention this 
interesting historical fact. The Davies stables had 
long since passed into oblivion, and so had Lonny 
Collins. No need to rake things up when there was 
no real occasion for it. ^ 

They lingered a little waiting for Virginia, the tea 
getting colder every minute, until Nicholas impatiently 
asked Marietta to pour it. Virginia appeared finally, 
having accomplished a hasty toilette. In Nevill’s 
honor she had put on her best, a blue silk dress now 
rather shabby, which had been among the few things 
she’d taken away with her. Nevill remembered it. 
She had worn that frock to dinner the Sunday night 
before Nicholas and she eloped. It had a sheen of 
gray in it and exactly matched her eyes. Her bur¬ 
nished hair—it looked a shade darker to Nevill—had 
some of the wave brushed out. Apparently she had 
slicked it down with water in her hurry to get dressed. 
The smoothness, drawn high and wound simply in a 
coil at the top, gave her an old-fashioned look. The 
baby hung in the crook of one arm, laughing, kicking. 


122 


OBLIGATIONS 


Virginia held her up for Nevill to see, but she avoided 
looking at him. She looked at the baby, instead. It 
was a charming, healthy infant, with hair the color 
that Virginia’s was now, curling in little soft ringlets, 
and it had Virginia’s eyes, too; but otherwise Cherry 
was Nicholas Wayne’s child. Even at the tender age 
of five or six months, it could be seen that she inherited 
her father’s pure Greek profile and satirical mouth. 
There was something very knowing in the baby smile, 
something ravishing in the little hands that pulled and 
tugged at Virginia, something possessive in the small 
feet that stamped so determinedly upon her mother’s 
knees, all instinctively suggesting Nicholas Wayne. 

Lonny Collins held out his arms. 

“Give ’er ’ere,” he croaked. 

Marietta flashed her father a look which said. 
“Can’t you hold your tongue, ever?” although this was 
about the first word poor Lonny had spoken. 

Virginia handed over her child to Lonny. She 
did n’t ask Nevill what he thought of Cherry, and he 
himself made no comment. He was trying to talk 
intelligently to Nicholas on the difficult subject of art; 
and Nicholas, though dead sick of art at the moment, 
humored him. 

“Oh, Marietta, it was kind of you I” Virginia said 
in a hasty aside, indicating that she appreciated all that 
had been done to make her impromptu tea-party a 
success. 


OBLIGATIONS 


123 

“There was nothing but the cake,” Marietta replied, 
scowling. “No bread, no butter, no confiture.” 

“I know,” said Virginia. “I was so late getting 
through this afternoon!” And now she was telling 
herself that as soon as Nevill had gone she M have to 
fly out to the shops, and by this time there’d be noth¬ 
ing whatever left. She gave but half an ear to the 
conversation between Nevill and her husband. It 
did n’t seem at all real that Nevill should be here. The 
fact of it would have hurt her too much; if she could 
only succeed in pretending that it was merely a dream 1 
She did dream of him frequently, just as in the old 
days she used to dream of Nicholas. 

Surreptitiously Lonny Collins, glared at by his 
daughter, jogged the baby on his knees and made little 
clicking noises meant to divert the infant. Bit by bit 
he worked his chair away from the table, and he ate 
nothing. But Marietta sat up in a genteel fashion, 
cut her bread and butter into small pieces, and crooked 
her little finger as she raised her tea-cup. Over the 
edge of it, her sloe-black eyes, when they were n’t 
abusing Lonny, wandered from Nevill Davies to 
Nicholas Wayne. She had something of her jockey 
father’s hard-bitten expression, although Lonny was a 
kindly person and Marietta was not. 

Nervously, Virginia sought to propitiate her, but it 
was n’t to be done. By this time she ought to have 
known that some things are almost impossible of 


124 


OBLIGATIONS 


accomplishment, but the stubborn persistent streak in 
Virginia rendered her blind to failure. Perhaps some 
day she would wear down Marietta’s remarkable 
resistance. Anyway, now and again she’d keep on 
trying. 

Nevill and Nicholas got up. 

‘T’m going to show him the ^burning bush,’ ” said 
Nicholas, referring with heavy humor to Monsieur le 
Docteur’s beard. ‘‘Coming along. Jinny?” 

She tagged behind them, rather ignored. (Had 
Nevill come to see her or Nicholas?) And this must 
be a dream, she thought, as she picked a rosebud that 
was striving to bloom over-late, and thrust it into her 
dress. The perfume of the rose, though faint, was 
real; the declining sun had a familiar aspect, and so 
had the little church across the meadows. And that 
nervously alert man in the gray suit, nodding abruptly 
and talking nonsense about painting to Nicholas, was 
too real for comfort’s sake. Oh, Nevill, why did you 
come here? Could it give either of them any joy to 
meet again? Only pain . . . such anguish! 

“And this is where I work when I’m at home,” 
Nicholas was saying, flinging open the double doors 
of the converted garage. “There’s my latest master¬ 
piece.” 

He pointed to the doctor’s satisfactory likeness that 
smirked benignly from the glistening canvas. A 
more meretricious bit of painting scarcely existed, 
and Nicholas—sardonic, grimly humorous Nicholas 


OBLIGATIONS 


125 

Wayne—knew it. He carried his joke so far as to pre¬ 
tend to be a little proud of such an achievement, almost 
as though he’d said: “Now you see, Jinny has mar¬ 
ried a great artist, while you—pooh, you are only a 
rich young baronet. That’s why she jilted you.” 

“The beard and the watch-chain gave me consid¬ 
erable trouble,” he said in a deeply serious tone. 
“Now, you would n’t believe it, Sir Nevill, but watch- 
chains are the very dickens to paint. I ’ll have you 
observe the details of that Masonic charm. Some¬ 
what in the old Dutch style, eh?” 

Nevill hesitated and cleared his throat. “Well, yes, 
of course I don’t know very much, but—” 

“Don’t be silly, Nicholas,” Virginia said a little 
sharply. “Why not tell Nevill the truth? He hates 
it, Nevill. Only we need the money—” 

“Not to mention the potatoes,” jeered Nicholas. 

“I was wondering,” Nevill began, fumbling clumsily 
in his mind for some way out of this impasse, “if you’d 
care to dine with me one night at the International 
Club?” He must discover some means of helping Vir¬ 
ginia, and he saw now that it was only to be done 
through her husband. Could he possibly make friends 
with the churl ? Could he bring himself to attempt so 
distasteful a task? Even then he couldn’t offer 
Wayne money. Perhaps Mollie could be induced to 
have her portrait painted, if it cost her nothing. Only, 
if this were a fair specimen of the man’s work, heaven 
help Mollie! 


126 


OBLIGATIONS 


Nicholas considered the invitation to dine. He 
glanced sidewise at Virginia, who appeared to be 
dreamily indifferent. Those shadowy eyes of hers 
dwelt upon the little gray church across the meadows, 
as though in spirit she were herself as far removed. 

'‘Thanks,” Nicholas said finally, his manner abrupt 
and definite. “I have n’t the clothes to invade the 
International.” 

“Oh, anywhere you choose,” Nevill put in. “Chio- 
stro was saying he’d like to see you again.” 

“I see Chiostro as often as I care to.” Now Nicho¬ 
las was being rude. “No, it’s very kind of you, but 
I don’t often get into Paris. Thanks all the same for 
asking me.” 

It was conveyed to Nevill that he’d stayed long 
enough, and he took his departure without return¬ 
ing to the cottage. He shook hands with both of them, 
and Virginia said she was glad to have seen him, but 
neither asked him to come again. 


CHAPTER XVII 

IRGINIA still further delayed her marketing un- 



V til there could be no question of running into 
Nevill in the town, although her errands would not 
take her in the neighborhood of the station. She had 
a panicky fear of seeing him again immediately after 
he had said good-by. It was a fear that held many 
small fears. It seemed to her that in her life she’d 
had to reckon with more people than her strength could 
stand. If others found it work bending Virginia to 
their wills, it was just as hard, from her point of view, 
getting them to understand her intentions. She be¬ 
lieved that her intentions were always good. Yet 
Nevill had disappointed her by not understanding, and 
now she feared a secret conflict with Nicholas. There 
was also Marietta Collins. The girl gave her an un¬ 
canny, creepy feeling of slyness. Marietta might have 
thought queer things, seeing her standing there cry¬ 
ing, with Nevill holding her hands. Perhaps it was 
just as well Marietta interrupted when she did. 

After Nevill had gone, Virginia turned abruptly and 
went into the house. Marietta was washing up the 
tea-things, and Lonny, under his daughter’s acid di¬ 
rections, was preparing the baby for bed. 


127 


128 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘‘Look how yer letting the kid’s head hang down! 
Can’t you hold ’er on a pillow? That’s right; drop 
’er little sock into the wash-basin. That’s the way 
to do it. ’Ere, give that kid to me.” 

‘T’m getting on all right,” whimpered Lonny. “Go 
away. Wash the dishes.” 

“I ’ll fetch a fresh pair of socks,” Virginia said, com¬ 
ing upon this scene while it was in full blast. “It’s 
so kind of you both to help me. Why, she’s half 
asleep already! Lonny, you ’re a wonder with that 
baby. You really are. She’s as good as gold with 
you.” 

Here was where Virginia tripped badly. In prais¬ 
ing Lonny seemingly at the expense of Marietta, she 
had done an unfortunate thing. Marietta went on 
with the dishes, turning her back. There was no rea¬ 
son why she should be doing Virginia’s work, but 
perhaps the excitement of the afternoon made it diffi¬ 
cult for her to seek the quiet of her own apartments. 

Virginia threw a shawl over her shoulders and got 
her rush basket. Then she hesitated a moment. She 
must ask Nicholas for some money, and he was still 
outside in the studio. She did n’t want to see Nicholas 
alone just now, not until he ’d got over the little fit of 
bad temper she’d felt was coming on. Still, to-morrow 
was Sunday, and the marketing had to be done. The 
best thing was to be brisk with Nicholas and pretend 
that nothing had happened. Nothing had happened, 


OBLIGATIONS 129 

beyond the unexpected dropping in of an old . . . 
friend. 

So she went bravely out to the converted garage to 
extort money from her husband. 

Nicholas had drawn a canvas deck-chair to the door 
and was sprawled in it with an idle, morose air; but 
he looked meditative rather than bad-tempered. She 
thought what a pair he and Marietta Collins were for 
the sulks as a rule. 

**Nico, can you let me have twenty francs?’’ she 
asked. 

She was all ready for the question as to what she’d 
done with the twenty francs she had on Wednesday. 
Eight francs of that sum had gone for cleaning and 
pressing his one decent suit. But Nicholas did n’t ask 
the usual question. He merely put his hand in his 
pocket and gave her the money. This seemed almost 
unfriendly, and she began to tell him about the suit, 
whereat he exclaimed: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, go 
away. I don’t want to hear your troubles. I’ve got 
a few of my own.” 

She flushed and thanked him hastily for the money. 
He was in a bad temper, after all. 

As the gate clicked behind her, Nicholas suddenly 
put his hands to his face, and a little moaning sound 
welled up from his throat. Should he boldly offer to 
do a portrait of the doctor’s wife, satisfaction guar¬ 
anteed, and take it out in medical attendance for him- 


130 


OBLIGATIONS 


self ? The pain in his side to-day had been nearly un¬ 
bearable. But if he made such a bargain, Jinny would 
naturally want to know what he was being paid for it, 
and he felt that just now he would rather die than have 
her suspect he was suffering from one of those periodi¬ 
cal attacks which, had seized him ever since when, at 
the age of seventeen, they had agreed at the hospital 
there was nothing further to be done, and let him go. 
He didn’t want Jinny to know; yet if that Davies 
fellow had n’t come gallivanting in this afternoon he 
might have told her. She’d never had to endure him 
in one of his attacks. Since his marriage he’d been 
so much better, so much happier—which probably had 
a lot to do with it. As for poverty, Nicholas had 
never known anything else, and it had n’t even worried 
him on Virginia’s account. Her placid acceptance of 
the sort of life he could offer her had lulled any ap¬ 
prehensions on the subject, and until to-day he’d 
almost forgotten that she had been bred in extreme 
comfort. 

He was groaning and muttering to himself when a 
sixth sense suddenly informed him that he was not 
alone, and he looked up to see Marietta Collins stand¬ 
ing before him. She had come softly over the grass, 
or else his preoccupation had deadened the sound of 
her approach. 

And it was a transfigured Marietta who looked down 
on him, a Marietta that Lonny and Virginia would 
have been puzzled to recognize. Her sulky, attractive 


OBLIGATIONS 


131 

mouth quivered; the small black eyes melted into a 
devouring, hungry wistfulness. 

“Oh, I don’t wonder,” she blurted out, mistaking the 
fundamental cause of Nicholas’s anguish. “It makes 
the damnable thing altogether! Lazy, deceitful—even 
now running after him, I suppose. In her blue silk 
dress. Oh, Mr. Wayne, it fair breaks the heart of me, 
that it does.” 

“What are you talking about?” Nicholas asked dully. 

“About ’er; that’s who. And I guess you know all 
about it, too. Plain enough, my poor dear. I caught 
^em fair and square, I did—holding hands and crying on 
each other’s shoulders. Friends 1 I know the world, 
I didn’t always live in St.-€loud, and even here—” 

It finally dawned upon Nicholas that all this vitu¬ 
peration was directed at Virginia. “Are you talking 
about my wife?” he asked. 

Marietta’s lips closed with the effect of a click. 
Somehow she had blundered; her sympathy was n’t at 
all appreciated. The tone of his voice told her that. 

As she made no reply, Nicholas said: Because if 
you are, you ’re wasting your breath. Save it for 
something really useful—nagging your father, for in¬ 
stance. I’m sure he appreciates your interference in 
his affairs more than I do in mine.” 

Marietta flushed an unbecoming color that warred 
with her brilliant hair. She was unversed in subtlety 
although naturally sly. It honestly had seemed to her 
that Nicholas was in a mood to appreciate consolation. 


132 OBLIGATIONS 

Of course she did n’t know about the stinging pain in 
his side. 

“I don’t want to interfere,” she said, relapsing into 
her every-day manner. ^‘It’s no business of mine, 
really.” 

“I’m glad you see that,” Nicholas agreed. 

He closed his eyes, and Marietta, after a moment’s 
indecision, left him. She wondered what would come 
of her boldness. Would Mr. Wayne tell his wife? 
Obviously he did n’t believe that Mrs. Wayne and the 
young English gentleman were far more friendly than 
was apparent on the surface. Husbands! how easily 
they were fooled! The more worthless the wife, the 
more readily did the husband allow himself to be 
tricked. 

Half blinded with angry tears. Marietta went up to 
her neat little room and attacked the amply propor¬ 
tioned blouse she was in process of cutting out for 
the mayor’s wife. Her scissors sliced viciously through 
the stiff black brocade. She jabbed in pins, fitted her 
handiwork together, basted; got up once to light the 
lamp and a second time to listen at the head of the 
stairs when Virginia returned. She heard Virginia 
moving about, but there was no conversation, so it 
must be that Mr. Wayne was still in his studio. At 
eight o’clock Marietta laid out a snack of supper for 
her father, who might or might not eat it when he 
came in, and went back to her sewing again. 

After a long, long time, she heard a door open, 


OBLIGATIONS 


133 

then slam violently. That was n’t her father’s way of 
entering, even when he was tipsy. Years of experi¬ 
ence had developed a manner of elaborate caution in 
Lonny. He might stumble, but he never slammed 
doors. 

Then there was the crash of a heavy object falling. 

Marietta got up again and went to the head of the 
stairs, holding her breath for fear of missing the slight¬ 
est sound. Her heart was going drum, drum, drum, 
a queer vibrant beat that shook her whole body. Per¬ 
haps Mr. Wayne had only pretended to be indifferent 
to her bit of news. Perhaps he had fortified himself 
with drink and was now killing his wife. A terrible 
little tragedy in this cottage! They would take him 
to a jail and very likely guillotine him, and then she— 
Marietta—would take care of Cherry and bring her 
up as her own. Drum, drum, drum —^what heart¬ 
beats! She drew in a gasping breath as there was a 
swift rush across the room below, a rustle of skirts— 
the blue silk dress, doubtless—and the door at the 
bottom of the stairs opened. Virginia stood there, not 
murdered as yet, but deathly pale. She seemed more 
relieved than surprised to find Marietta gaping down 
at her. 

‘'Oh, Marietta, go for the doctor, quick!” she cried. 
“Quick—quick! Something’s happened to my hus¬ 
band. I think he’s dead.” 

Marietta came flying down the stairs in a marve¬ 
lous fashion, considering her high heels. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


N icholas lay partly on one side on the stone 
floor of the kitchen. His face was h^arble 
white; a lock of hair straggled across his forehead. 
Of course he was considerably taller now than he had 
been at the age of twelve, but to Virginia’s horrified 
gaze he looked exactly the same as he had seventeen 
years ago when she and the others left him for dead 
under the cherry-tree. And, as on that former oc¬ 
casion, she had a strong impulse to run away and 
leave him to his unknown fate. But this time she only 
ran as far as the stairs to call Marietta. 

As quick as lightning, the curious sequence of their 
lives flashed across her mental vision. Over and over 
again in her childhood’s dreams, she had killed Nicholas. 
In every sort of way. And now—was this the final 
answer ? 

She had been in the bedroom, just about to take off 
her festive dress and don something more practical, 
after which it was her intention to fry a couple of the 
chops she’d brought home, and serve them with bread 
and butter and coffee for their evening meal. Nicho¬ 
las sometimes went into the town on Saturday nights 
with Lonny, but he always returned by nine o’clock, 
134 


OBLIGATIONS 


135 


and as he never drank there was no cause for appre¬ 
hension on that score. Nevertheless, she had been 
anxious about him ever since Nevill left, worried lest 
he should begin abusing her about Nevill, worried for 
fear he might think she herself was dissatisfied or un- 
happy because of the contrast of prosperity their visi¬ 
tor had presented. Nicholas had n’t been quite him¬ 
self when he handed over that money to her, and she 
had winced under his cutting remark about having 
troubles of his own. 

As she moved about the bedroom she told herself 
that Nicholas mustn’t know that she really was suf¬ 
fering ; he must n’t remotely suspect. It was quite un¬ 
necessary to hurt him. Enough that she herself was 
cruelly hurt and that poor Nevill— But no, she 
must n’t think about Nevill. It shook her too much, 
started up such a violent trembling that she could n’t 
control the movements of her hands, and her knees lost 
all their strength. 

Then Nicholas had come in, and the door slammed 
behind him as though banged by a great gust of wind. 
She rushed to see, and there was Nicholas, lurching, 
swaying, the sticks with which he helped himself fallen 
out of his hands. Before she could do anything—in 
a second it happened—he had lunged forward, grasped 
at a chair in a useless effort to save himself, and crashed 
to the floor, where he lay as still as the stone itself. 

There came over Virginia, in that painful flash of 
mental anguish, that somehow she was responsible for 


OBLIGATIONS 


136 

this, just as she had been somehow responsible for the 
accident of long ago. And now, as then, she had an¬ 
ticipated trouble before it actually happened. She had 
known that something was going to happen. 

“Is he dead?” she whispered, as Marietta dropped 
to her knees beside the still form. 

Marietta put an arm under Nicholas’s head as care¬ 
fully as though he had been little Cherry; she laid her 
face against his breast. 

“He’s not dead,” she said, after listening a moment. 
Then she sniffed with an air of knowing suspicion. 
“But he’s been drinking.” She wanted to add, “And 
serve you jolly well right.” 

“Drinking!” Virginia shuddered. “Oh, no. Mari¬ 
etta. Mr. Wayne never drinks.” 

“He has been now,” said Marietta. “You can smell 
it on his breath. Cognac. If you ’ll kindly fetch a 
pillow, Mrs. Wayne, we ’ll put it under his head, and 
then I ’ll go for the doctor. Although it’s me own 
opinion that a little cold water and hot coffee ’ll do the 
trick all right. Not being used to it and on an empty 
stummick, and being worried and all . . .” 

What did Marietta mean by Nicholas’s being 
worried ? 

Virginia brought the pillow and insisted that Mari¬ 
etta should bring the doctor, in spite of her villainous 
optimism as to the trivial cause of the seizure. 

The doctor came quickly through the gap in the 
hedge, and about the same time Lonny Collins ap- 


OBLIGATIONS 


137 


peared, a little drunk himself, but no more than was 
usual, and perfectly competent to help. Marietta took 
the sleeping baby up-stairs to her own room, and Nicho¬ 
las was carried into the bedroom, partially disrobed, 
and his case gone into. 

He certainly had been drinking. The doctor cheer¬ 
fully backed up Marietta’s diagnosis to that extent. 
But there was something beyond that unpleasant fact 
to account for his condition. He seemed to be in pain, 
and groaned a great deal as he came to. Virginia was 
asked to leave him alone with the doctor and Lonny. 

Marietta had brought down her lamp and sewing 
and sat stitching with quick rapid jerks, her face un¬ 
usually pale and set. Occasionally she glanced at Vir¬ 
ginia, who, after a futile turn or two about the room, 
slumped down on the couch and sat apathetically star¬ 
ing at the magazine-cover sketch of herself, just as 
Nevill had done a few hours ago, her clenched hands 
between her knees, her shoulders sagging forward. 

Marietta thought: ‘^What a helpless, useless 
woman! Why does n’t she do something—cook her¬ 
self some supper? I suppose she thinks if she waits 
long enough I ’ll offer to do it for her. Well . . .” 

Marietta laid aside the mayor’s wife’s blouse-in-the- 
making, and drummed impatiently on the table with 
her thimble. 

‘Well—” this time she said it aloud—“shall I get 
you some supper, Mrs. Wayne?” 

Virginia started. “No—oh, no, thank you. I 


138 OBLIGATIONS 

could n’t eat anything. But it’s awfully kind of you, 
Marietta.” 

“Not at all,” murmured Marietta, hating herself for 
her kindness. “Only—I think you’d better. It 
would n’t be any trouble—no trouble at all. What 
were you going to have ?” 

Virginia shook her head and struggled with a lump 
in her throat. 

“It’s—it’s—awfully kind of you. No, I don’t 
want any supper.” 

“Don’t you think you ought to ?” Marietta said, her 
voice hoarsely cold. “The baby, you know.” 

“Oh, yes! . . . Well, just as you like.” Virginia 
sighed deeply. “But wait until we hear what the doc¬ 
tor says. I may have to go out for something.” 

“Dad ’ll go—or I will. You sit jiist where you 
are, Mrs. Wayne. . . . And I don’t see what all this 
fuss is about. Just because a gentleman takes a drop 
too much. Having the doctor and all—” 

As though he had heard himself mentioned and 
responded like a jack-in-the-box, the bushy-bearded 
doctor popped out of the bedroom, quick but quiet. 
He closed the door behind him with extreme caution. 

“Madame, your husband is very ill,” he announced 
gravely. “I must send for a nursing sister. Very 
ill, indeed, is your husband.” 

Virginia got up and went to meet the doctor. To 
Marietta’s intense disgust, she gave him her hands to 
pat. 


OBLIGATIONS 


139 


“But, after all, it may not be so serious as one 
fears,’' he added, patting those poor reddened hands 
in a comforting fashion. 

“What is it?” Virginia asked. 

“An old trouble, he tells me. He's been in pain 
for several days but hoped it would pass. He did n’t 
like to bother you.” 

Virginia released herself and edged toward the door 
of the bedroom. Then she hesitated. “What shall 
I do for him, doctor?” she asked, with that air of 
helplessness that drove Marietta to inward fury. 

“Just sit beside him until the sister comes. I’m 
sending Collins to the chemist’s for some morphia. 
To-morrow morning we will look into it thoroughly. 
I may require another opinion.” 

“You mean, a specialist?” 

“Perhaps,” said the doctor. 

As Virginia went into the bedroom, Lonny tiptoed 
out, sidling past her with a look of deep commiseration. 

It was not a very large room, and, like the kitchen, 
none too well furnished. The bed itself took up a 
great deal of the space, and in one corner was the 
baby’s soap-box crib on two chairs. In addition there 
was another chair fetched from the kitchen for the 
doctor, and a combination wash-stand and chest of 
drawers. 

Nicholas was awake when his wife entered. She 
sat down in the chair that had been brought for the 
doctor. 


140 


OBLIGATIONS 


^*Nico, dear, are you in pain?’^ she asked, stroking 
his forehead lightly. 

He made an effort to smile, resulting in an un¬ 
pleasant facial distortion like the grimace of a fiend. 

“Somewhat,’’ he replied. 

“Oh, why did n’t you tell me!” she cried softly. 

“There was n’t any use.” 

She touched his hand, but he drew it sharply away. 

“Do you hate me, Nico?” she asked. 

“No—I don’t know. Perhaps I do.” He ground 
his teeth, but did not quite succeed in suppressing the 
groan. 

“Because I—^because you ’re suffering from that old 
hurt? Oh, Nico, if only I could suffer for you!” 

She slipped to her knees beside the bed and began 
to pray in a curious fashion, begging God to let her 
take Nicholas’s pain into her own body; as though 
convinced if she voiced her desire earnestly enough the 
thing would happen. 

“Get up, Jinny! Don’t do that. I can’t bear it. 
Get up—get up!” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Is n’t there anything I can 
do . . She groveled there, her face wet and 
swollen with tears, her hands picking at the bedclothes 
in a dreary, futile fashion. “Oh, dear God, let me do 
something!'* 

Marietta, glittering of eye, catlike, stood in the 
doorway. 

“You’d better come away, Mrs. Wayne,” she said 


OBLIGATIONS 141 

with fiercely restrained passion. ‘‘You Ye only mak¬ 
ing him worse.” 

“Yes, go away. Please go away,” Nicholas 
groaned. “Both of you. I want to be alone. I beg 
of you to leave me alone.” 

Again Virginia had failed, and this time she could, 
indeed, hold herself severely to blame. She needn’t 
have broken down like that and added to Nicholas’s 
burden. She pulled herself sharply together and 
motioned Marietta to leave the room. But she did not 
go herself, even though Nicholas had ordered her to 
do so. His white face was beady with perspiration, 
and she got a clean handkerchief out of a drawer and 
moistened it with some eau de Cologne, the remnants 
of a bottle he had given her during their honeymoon, 
and gently dabbed his forehead and lips with it. His 
eyes were half closed now. Perhaps he did n’t real¬ 
ize that she was still there. 

It seemed scarcely any time before Lonny returned 
from the chemist’s. The doctor came again and gave 
Nicholas a hypodermic that soon sent him to sleep. 
Then the sister arrived from the convent, looking an 
angel of mercy in her flowing habit, but not exactly 
Virginia’s idea of a hospital nurse. 

All night the sister sat by Nicholas, telling her beads, 
while he slept his drugged sleep. Marietta kept the 
baby up-stairs, and Virginia sat or lay on the couch in 
the kitchen, according to her fancy. Sometimes she 
got up and walked about. 


142 


OBLIGATIONS 


Nicholas was ill; was, perhaps, going to be very ill. 
There would be a consultation about him in the morn¬ 
ing. She wondered what the doctors would decide 
must be done; and whatever they decided, how was it 
to be done? Her thoughts ran in an agonizing circle 
from ways and means to the pain and suffering of 
Nicholas, and around again to the financial problem. 
That was the cruelest of all, their poverty. For her¬ 
self? One knows that in such anguish she would 
passionately deny that she herself mattered in the 
least. But Nicholas and the baby did matter. She 
had to think for them both. But thinking alone 
would n’t help the situation. It became a problem of 
what she would do. Marietta Collins would have 
told her that she could do nothing, because she was so 
utterly feckless. She could n’t even scrub a floor 
properly. Yet she would have to do something— 
something. 

Gradually the long night passed. At dawn Mari¬ 
etta crept down with the baby in her arms and relin¬ 
quished her to Virginia. But the baby was fretful, 
and it was a business to keep her quiet. Marietta 
made coffee for the sister and gave Virginia some. 

Sunday morning. The church-bells rang out for 
mass. Up crept the sun. The baby cried and would 
not be comforted. Marietta said that as soon as the 
milkman came they must try feeding her with the bot¬ 
tle ; meanwhile, wrap up in a shawl and take her into 


OBLIGATIONS 


143 

the garden, so that Mr. Wayne should n^t be disturbed 
any more than was necessary. 

How weirdly gray and lifeless Virginia looked that 
chill October morning as she walked to and fro in the 
damp grass, mechanically trying to soothe her hungry, 
fretful child, holding Cherry against her shoulder, 
patting the writhing little back—a vague, shadowy 
woman like some wraith escaped from the church- 
yard’s coldly comforting embrace back to a world of 
pain and suffering! Her very face was gray, with 
bluish hollows under the eyes. In sharp contrast, the 
sun caught the gold of her disordered hair and gave it 
the mocking semblance of a halo. 


CHAPTER XIX 


I T was about two weeks later that Mollie Shaw de¬ 
cided she had better write the letter Nevill had 
been urging her to send to Edith O’Dare. She had not 
actually refused to write it at once, but argument caused 
a little delay. In Mollie’s opinion, Nevill was trying 
to interfere in something which, strictly speaking, was 
none of his business. 

He met this by agreeing. Yet whose business was 
it, then ? Certainly Virginia’s parents must be in 
ignorance of the way she was living, or they would not 
allow it. 

“Then why,” asked Mollie, “does n’t Virginia write 
to them herself? I don’t think I should meddle, if I 
were you.” 

But there came a moment when she had to do as 
Nevill wished, or he would have gone flying over to 
Paris again. Indeed, he had been the poorest sort of 
company since that visit of his to the poverty-stricken 
cottage. Mollie told her dearest friends in the strict¬ 
est confidence that he was heading straight for a luna¬ 
tic asylum. He clung to her because he could talk to 
her about Virginia; and little by little she got the whole 
story out of him, including a bit which has not been 
144 


OBLIGATIONS 


145 


previously narrated, and of which Virginia herself 
was in ignorance. That part had to do with what 
happened after he said good-by to her and her husband 
and presumably had started to wend his way back to 
Paris. That part was very important and had a direct 
bearing upon his reluctance to pursue the matter 
personally. 

The O’Dares had returned to their pretty home in 
Chevy Chase on the outskirts of Washington. At 
least, that was where they had gone after leaving Lon¬ 
don, and although two years had elapsed since then 
and Mollie had not heard from Edith in all that time, 
she addressed her letter there. 

It was the most difficult letter Mollie Shaw had ever 
written in her life, and she hated her task so much that 
she shed tears over it. Apparently it could not be 
composed in a fashion that suited Nevill, who insisted 
upon being shown what she had said. His censorship 
took out of it any small enjoyment Mollie might have 
extracted from the disagreeable matter. 

The finished product ran in this wise: 

Dearest Edith: 

I have wondered often at not hearing from you since 
you went home, and have meant to write myself from 
time to time, but so many things have happened and I Ve 
been so terribly busy and sad, too. Perhaps you didn’t 
hear of Tom’s death. He died this summer after a very 
sudden and short illness, and you may imagine that I 
feel pretty blue and lonely. 


OBLIGATIONS 


146 

Poor Nevill, who has been in India for some time, came 
home to help me out over the tiresome settling up of 
things, and a fortnight ago when he was in Paris he heard 
some news of Virginia that rather disquieted him. I 
hope you 'll forgive me for writing to you about it, Edith, 
but Nevill thought you and Malcolm ought to know, and 
he urged me to write to you. 

Fedor Chiostro told him that Virginia and her husband 
were rather hard up. Nevill went to call on them in 
St.-Cloud where they are now living. Wayne, I be¬ 
lieve, is employed in the galleries at Versailles, doing 
something to the pictures—varnishing them or touching 
them up or something. Nevill does n’t quite know what 
his job is. But it can’t be any too well paid, for Nevill 
says they are living in real poverty, and there is a baby. 
Nevill wishes me to tell you that their poverty cannot he 
exaggerated. When he arrived, Virginia was down on 
her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. 

Of course poor Nevill is terribly shocked and upset, 
but it is impossible for him to do anything. Something 
most unpleasant happened after he left. Instead of going 
straight back to Paris he decided to dine in St.-Cloud, 
and several hours later was still in the town, sitting in 
front of a cafe having coffee and smoking, when suddenly 
this Nicholas Wayne came limping along—I believe you 
know that the man is very lame—and when he saw 
Nevill he stopped and made a rude remark to him. I 
dare say Wayne got it into his head that poor Nevill was 
hanging around St.-Cloud on the chance of seeing Vir¬ 
ginia again, which of course is most absurd. As though 


OBLIGATIONS 


147 

Nevill would have done anything so undignified! Any¬ 
way, that was how Virginia’s husband took it. 

So, of course, poor Nevill’s hands are tied. It is rather 
terrible, and we felt that you ought to be told. I don’t 
know their exact address, but if you will write to Vir¬ 
ginia in care of Chiostro and address your letter to him 
at the International Club, Avenue St.-Marc, Paris, 
Chiostro will see that she gets it. No doubt Virginia 
would accept help from you when she could n’t or 
would n’t from anybody else. 

I must close in haste now to catch the post. The 
Majestic sails to-morrow. 

With best love to yourself and Malcolm-—and do let 
me hear from you, Edith! 

Yours, 

Mollie. 

Even this was not perfectly satisfactory. There 
were too many ‘‘poor Nevills” in it to suit his taste, 
but since Mollie announced that it was positively her 
last effort on his behalf, he let it go. He posted it 
himself and felt a little happier when it slid into the 
pillar-box and he knew that within five weeks or so 
they must certainly have a reply. 

What a fool he had been to “hang around St.-Cloud” 
after saying good-by. For despite Mollie’s scornful 
assurance that he was incapable of such low motives, 
Nevill knew that he had been unable to tear himself 
away simply because, by remaining, he was somewhere 


OBLIGATIONS 


148 

near Virginia, and might possibly be lucky enough to 
catch another glimpse of her, since he had heard it 
mentioned that she had some marketing to do. But 
being ignorant of just where Virginia marketed, he 
was unlucky in choosing the wrong neighborhood, and 
more unlucky in being discovered by Nicholas. 

The episode had been distressing. 

In his report to Mollie, Nevill had merely mentioned 
“Wayne's insufferable rudeness." As a matter of 
fact, Nicholas had not been rude, exactly. He had 
laughed loud and mirthlessly and exclaimed: 

“What ho! If you’re waiting for Jinny you’ll 
catch your death of cold. But if you like I ’ll trot 
back and tell her.’’ 

And Nevill had said: “Thanks, I’m not waiting 
for anybody. No objection to my sitting here, I 
suppose ?’’ 

“Sit where you like,’’ Nicholas had retorted, “so 
long as you have a clear understanding.’’ 

And then he had limped off. Nevill waited a good 
half-hour after that, just to show himself, and any 
one else who might be interested, that the incident had 
left him quite unmoved. 

But with Nicholas it had been different. Nicholas 
went on down the crooked little street suffering no one 
knew what tortures. His body was racked with pain, 
which for several days past now he had been trying 
to subdue by various forms of mental treatment, chiefly 
consisting of assuring himself that it was all nonsense 


OBLIGATIONS 


1149 

and he had n’t the slightest intention of succumbing to 
anything so trivial as forked lightning playing up and 
down his spine. 

That afternoon, however, with the coming of Nevill 
Davies, the thing had defined itself for what it was, 
and Marietta’s tale of seeing the two together holding 
hands and falling on each other’s shoulders had got be¬ 
tween Nicholas and any remaining perspective of values 
concerning his own physical condition. He had hoped 
to walk it into quiescence, and then came upon Nevill 
lingering like a hungry dog, driven off yet not com¬ 
pletely away, unable to forsake completely the bone of 
his desire. 

It was the proverbial last straw where Nicholas 
Wayne was concerned. Jinny had never cared for 
him. Of that he was convinced now. She had mar¬ 
ried him— why? Dear heaven, could n’t somebody 
tell him why? One day he would take her by the 
shoulders and shake the answer out of her. Perhaps 
he’d do it to-night. He felt savage enough. Yet not 
physically able. She’d let him shake her. Oh, yes! 
... In imagination he could see her with her head 
bobbing helplessly and the wild, surprised look he’d 
once or twice frightened into her eyes. But would she 
answer? And if she did, would he like to hear what 
she might have to say? 

A gust of warm, sickish air blew out from an open 
doorway, and Nicholas heard Lonny Collins’ silly cack¬ 
ling laugh. It was the Cafe d’Or, Lonny’s favorite 


OBLIGATIONS 


150 

retreat on a Saturday or any other night, but partic¬ 
ularly on a Saturday. 

Nicholas limped in and greeted Lonny, who was 
somewhat taken aback to be thus confronted by Mr. 
Wayne when in the enjoyment of low companionship. 
There was sawdust on the floor—Nicholas remembered 
that—also cuspidors; a tall bar with shelves of bright 
bottles behind it; and a little fat businesslike madame 
serving. 

Nicholas ordered cognac for himself, and still more 
cognac. So absorbed was he in the process of order¬ 
ing and imbibing that he quite forgot to offer Lonny 
a drink. Then suddenly it came over him that he had 
had enough—perhaps a little more than enough. An 
occasional glass of vermuth or pint of wine with 
a festive meal had heretofore been the limit of his 
indulgence. But the forked lightning playing up and 
down his spine did its part to steady him as to real¬ 
ities. He could have drunk gallons that night, he told 
himself, and still have remained reasonably sober. 
Indeed, he would have given much for anything that 
could have shut off that consuming play of fire. 

So now he limped home, staggering a little, groan¬ 
ing much. His brain ran a dizzy riot between what 
he had to say to Virginia and what the doctor—whom 
he must see to-morrow—might have to say to him. 
. . . The palace at Versailles with its hundreds, thou¬ 
sands, millions of inane, stupid portraits. Who cared 
whether they survived or not? And his own master- 


OBLIGATIONS 


151 

piece not yet painted. Oh, no, his own masterpiece 
was a burning bush with a pearly path down the 
middle—^the doctor’s priceless beard. Just finished 
this afternoon. Thank heaven, it was finished! . . . 
And so for the moment was Nicholas Wayne. 


CHAPTER XX 


W EEKS went by. Mollie received no answer 
to her letter, and finally Nevill cabled to Wash¬ 
ington to a mutual friend and got back the informa¬ 
tion that Malcolm and Edith had started on a trip 
around the world two months previously, by way of 
California, the Hawaiian Islands, and Japan. They 
appeared to have left no address behind them, although 
that of course was absurd. Still, the delay was ac¬ 
counted for. One would probably hear from them 
eventually, but it was uncertain when, and Virginia’s 
problem was of the immediate present. For by this 
time Chiostro, bestirred by conscience—since some of 
the responsibility would appear to be his—^had gone 
out to St.-Cloud at NevilFs instigation and returned 
a report which seemed to bear out the statement that 
things are never so bad that they cannot be worse. 
Nevill had thought it bad enough when he discovered 
a famished Virginia on her knees scrubbing the floor. 
Now, according to Chiostro, the Waynes were in such 
a plight that soon there might be no floor to scrub. 
He had left a hundred-franc note on the dresser and 
gone away tearing his hair. 

In the comfortable lounge of the International Club, 


OBLIGATIONS 


153 


Nevill and he discussed the situation and, incidentally, 
Nicholas Wayne. Nevill had made an effort to set 
aside his personal feelings as far as Fedor Chiostro 
was concerned, although he had a distinct grievance. 
Chiostro seemed not to think it so much of a great 
tragedy that Virginia had jilted him in favor of a 
man like Wayne, as that Wayne himself had never 
really had a chance to paint. 

“But he can’t paint,” Nevill said severely. “I’ve 
seen some of his stuff. Good heavens! I don’t pre¬ 
tend to know much about painting, but I do know 
rotten work when I see it.” 

Fedor Chiostro laughed indulgently. 

“The man has been painting to live. I suppose 
you ’re referring to Dr. Dessau’s portrait. I saw it. 
Humph!” 

“That—and other things,” Nevill replied. 

“You’ve never seen what he can do. There was 
one picture of his in the Salon during the war. No¬ 
body had time then to pay any attention to painters. 
I believe an American bought it. It was called ^The 
Artist’s Model’—just a lay-figure draped in a dingy 
paint-stained sheet. Grim and forceful; yet he’d got 
sheer beauty into it, too. One felt the poverty of the 
wretched painter who couldn’t afford a living model, 
yet would somehow contrive a thing of graceful flesh 
out of that wooden dummy.” 

“Bah!” exclaimed Nevill. “Wayne’s poverty seems 
to be his one asset. I believe he’s proud of it.” 


1541 


OBLIGATIONS 


“He *s very ill,” Chiostro said gravely. 

Nevill bit his lips. He wanted to say, “Well, it 
would be a blessing if he died.” But that wouldn’t 
have sounded at all nice. 

“Meanwhile, Virginia is starving,” he said aloud. 

“Oh, no. Not exactly starving. But of course 
something must be done. She saw me put that note 
on the dresser, but thank God she did n’t try to thank 
me, or make me take it back. They’ve fixed him up 
on the couch in the kitchen now, and he’s able to 
work a little. He’s done a companion portrait of 
Madame Dessau to match the good doctor’s, and that 
will about cover the cost of the medical attendance. 
But he has to have massage and electrical treatments 
and nourishing food. All that is expensive. The 
girl who lives up-stairs helps Virginia. Queer crea¬ 
ture. Did you see her the day you called?” 

Nevill nodded gloomily. 

“She looks after them a bit,” Chiostro went on. 
“Nico is working on a portrait of Virginia now. He’s 
going to call it 'Wife and Child of the Artist.’ ” 

“He can’t seem to get away from 'the Artist,’ 
can he?” sneered Nevill. “Another poverty-picture, 
I take it.” 

Chiostro shrugged his shoulders. “The man’s a 
genius,” he said stubbornly. “It will be a crime if he 
gets strong enough to go back to that deadly work at 
the palace before he’s finished this.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


155 

‘‘You think he . . . may get strong enough? I 
mean to say, recover?’^ 

Kind-hearted Chiostro read the unspoken thought 
in poor Nevill’s mind. If Nicholas Wayne were to 
die, the widow and the orphan would not suffer from 
neglect. And Nevill was such a thoroughly decent 
young fellow! Not many men would have remained 
constant under such treatment as he had suffered. 

‘T ought n’t to hold out false hopes to you,” Chiostro 
said grimly. “Wayne has the constitution of an ox; 
otherwise he would never have survived that injury to 
his spine; and having survived thus far, I believe he is 
thoroughly determined to go on living.” 

Nevill reddened. “I did n’t mean—oh, hang it all! 
why pretend! It wouldn’t break my heart if he did 
die.” 

“I think it would break Virginia’s,” Chiostro said. 

The flush subsided and left Nevill curiously pale. 
There was a strained look about his eyes that should n’t 
have been there with one so young. “You think she 
. . . cares . . . that much?” he said in a husky 
whisper. 

“If you mean, do I think she’s in love with him, no, 
I don’t,” Chiostro replied. “But Nicholas stands for 
something to Virginia. If he died—that is to say, 
died now—she would have failed. The story is a little 
obscure to me, but I know bits of it. You were the 
only man she was ever in love with. I remember you 


OBLIGATIONS 


156 

both coming to my studio to look at her portrait again. 
Was n’t it a day or so after you’d first met?” 

The fine young face winced under the stabbing re¬ 
minder. Nevill nodded curtly. 

“And you were head over heels in love with each 
other then, although probably neither of you knew it.” 

“I knew it,” said Nevill. 

“Then doubtless she did, too. Hug that to your 
heart, my friend. The girl loved you. Her mother 
may have been after titles, but Virginia never thought 
of such things. She was a different being after she 
met you. I felt I’d painted the wrong woman. But 
I was right; my God, I was right! And with all my 
heart and soul, Davies, I wish I’d been wrong. A 
little distrust of myself wouldn’t do an old man like 
me any harm. It might even do me good. I’d’ve 
liked her to be happy, the sweet, pretty child that she 
was. . . . But when I saw them together in that 
dreadful studio I was sharing with Nico, I got the 
key to the puzzle she’d set me. It was a temptation. 
I could n’t be sorry when she eloped with him. I said 
to myself, ‘How many times in a long life does one 
meet a woman with character enough to work out her 
own salvation?’ . . . Oh, I know I You’ll find plenty 
—too many—who pride themselves on leading their 
own lives as they call it, and think it demands courage 
when it’s merely self-indulgence and the sort of pas¬ 
sion that the domestic cat understands perfectly; but 
salvation is another matter. When a woman can do 


OBLIGATIONS 


157 

what Virginiai O'Dare did, face the life she has to 
live, I'm prepared to take off my hat to her." 

Nevill was not quite so much impressed as he should 
have been. 

‘‘You think it's right, then—assuming that she did 
care for—for me—that she should have married 
Wayne?" 

“If you understand Virginia as well as you ought 
to—as well as I believe you do—you ’ll admit that she 
could n’t possibly do anything else," Chiostro said 
quickly. “Once she found that Nico wanted her. 
She’s not unhappy, Davies; and surely you don’t wish 
her to be unhappy. She’d have been miserable if 
she’d married you—^after she knew that Nico wanted 
her." 

“She isn’t unhappy!" Nevill repeated. He felt be¬ 
wildered. He himself was—well, thoroughly unhappy. 

“She’s just a spirit," Chiostro said cheerfully. 
“The flesh does n’t count with her very much. I ’ll 
wager that it never did. She does n’t even know how 
changed she is physically. And Nico is a realist. 
Make no mistake about it, he ’ll paint her hands exactly 
as they are. The whole world will know what that 
‘Artist’s Wife’ has had to put her hands into. Did 
you notice—" 

Nevill shuddered. A flaming pain shot through him 
at the remembrance of those poor work-ravaged 
hands. Delicate, gently bred Virginia O’Dare! Yet 
it was not of her hands that Nevill had thought most 


OBLIGATIONS 


158 

often since that painful afternoon in St.-Cloud; it 
was of her shadowed eyes and smile, and the robust 
baby kicking against and tugging at her frailty. Let 
the hands pass. A week or a month of care would 
restore them; but the child of Nicholas Wayne had 
done something to Virginia that completely baffled 
Nevill. Once there had existed an almost perfect un¬ 
derstanding between him and Virginia; so much so 
that he even comprehended her mad marriage. But 
Cherry had started a new train of thought in him that 
might lead to complete misunderstanding. Cherry, 
with Virginia's eyes and coloring, was yet most em¬ 
phatically Wayne’s child. 

Nevill passed a hand across his eyes with a quick 
impatient gesture to rid himself of the vision, and 
then he brought the subject back to ways and means. 
It was hateful to be sitting here in this comfortable 
club lounge, to be going presently with Chiostro to a 
carefully chosen dinner—warmed, well fed, and well 
clothed—and to know that in that wretched little cot¬ 
tage on the edge of Paris Virginia endured life under 
conditions of dire poverty. 

“We must do something,” Nevill urged. “At 
once.” 

“I agree with you, and although I’m not a rich 
man—” 

Nevill interrupted with a gesture. “You know I 
would willingly give her anything—everything she 
could possibly need,” he said angrily. 


OBLIGATIONS 


159 


‘^Of course you would/’ Chiostro replied. ‘^Only—” 

“Only she wouldn’t take it. Or Wayne wouldn’t 
let her. I understand that, and I admit respecting 
him for it. But he has no right to let her starve when 
friends are willing to help. There’s a type of person 
who’s proud on the subject of money, and on noth¬ 
ing else. That’s Wayne, I take it. He was n’t too 
proud to marry Virginia, knowing that he could n’t 
look after her. He would n’t even let her own father 
do anything for her. The fellow is stupid, thoroughly 
stupid. I ’ll tell you what I ’ll do, Chiostro. I ’ll give 
you a check for twenty thousand francs, and you must 
see that she gets the money and uses it. She need n’t 
know who it comes from. Nor need Wayne.” 

Chiostro whistled softly and shook his shaggy head. 

“That’s a tall order, my boy. They’d know it 
did n’t come from me. 

“Well, is n’t there somebody you can put it on ? Tell 
the wretched man that the Society for the Prevention 
of Cruelty to Artists’ Wives has looked into Virginia’s 
case and reported favorably upon it. I don’t care 
how it’s done, so long as it is done. Of course you 
need n’t give them the whole sum at once. That would 
rouse suspicion. But dribble it out, and buy things 
yourself—things you can see they need. I would n’t 
bother you if I could do it, but Wayne and I don’t 
like each other very much. And it would only make 
trouble for Virginia if I played the philanthropist in 
person. Besides, if there’s any occasion for anybody 


i6o 


OBLIGATIONS 


to get touchy, it’s only a question of a few weeks 
when we ’re bound to hear from the O’Dares, and they 
can pay me back if they feel it’s necessary.” 

“I ’ll see what I can do,” said Chiostro. 

After an absurd pretense of having ^^business” in 
Paris, and of running across every week or so, Nevill 
gave it up and quite frankly settled himself there in 
the Hotel Regina. It was a place of cruel memories, 
yet so identified with his last days of happiness that he 
went to it like a homesick cat. Always it seemed 
possible that he might see bright-haired Virginia flit¬ 
ting down the corridor in her soft chinchilla furs, that 
he might run across that sweet vision and take her un¬ 
awares. Across the river Chiostro was established for 
the winter in a studio overlooking the gardens of the 
Luxembourg. He had let his house in Chelsea. The 
two men were thrown together a good deal over this 
matter of Virginia Wayne and her husband. 

Every few days Chiostro went out to St.-Cloud, and 
when he returned he was sure to find Nevill patiently 
waiting in his studio to hear what had happened. 
Furtive Madame Chiostro would give Nevill tea, and 
sometimes he had waited as long as three hours for 
Chiostro’s return. It was cruel, that waiting. After¬ 
ward, whenever Nevill Davies thought of a soul in 
purgatory, it was always a gray December day gloom¬ 
ing through an immense north window, with the bare 
branches of trees outside creaking miserably in the 
cold. It was cold in the studio, too, heated only by a 


OBLIGATIONS 


i6i 


doirs-size grate. Madame Chiostro muffled herself in 
woolen scarfs and, whenever she spoke at all, com¬ 
plained of the temperature. 

But it was n’t the cold that hurt Nevill. If any¬ 
thing, he derived a certain amount of cheer in physical 
discomfort. At least he could share something with 
Virginia. He spent the times of waiting in complete 
idleness, smoking cigarette after cigarette, hating the 
taste of them yet unable to subdue the nervous crav¬ 
ing for some sort of relief. The stoutness Mollie 
Shaw had spoken of had worn away. Nevill was as 
thin as a rail, and there were fine lines in his face that 
gave him a wasted, almost dissipated look. Virginia, 
the unattainable, had become for him a fixed idea. He 
understood now how men are driven by an idea to 
commit murder. He thought of Virginia as a 
wounded animal caught in the springs of a steel trap. 

If it cost him his life, she must be released. 

He turned the matter over in his mind with grim 
deliberation while he waited there in Chiostro’s studio. 
Suppose that he killed Wayne. His own life would 
be the forfeit, and then he could leave a comfortable 
fortune to Virginia. But it was all so absurd—ridicu¬ 
lous ! Nevill was too practical to carry his idea beyond 
mere speculation. One could n’t kill a man and get 
hung or guillotined and leave a fortune for the widow 
to enjoy all in the space of a few weeks or so. And 
altogether it would be such a messy, scandalous busi¬ 
ness. Virginia would simply hate the idea, and as for 


i 62 


OBLIGATIONS 


poor Mollie, she’d never be able to hold up her head 
again. Oh, no, the murder was off. One must think 
of something else. And then Nevill would try to 
think of something else, other than all the impossible 
things he M thought of before, casting away his half- 
smoked cigarettes, drumming on the frosty window- 
pane, wandering about in a state of absolute dejection. 

Only five o’clock? Surely it must be later. Chios- 
tro would n’t have started for home yet, and it would 
take him quite an hour to return. 

Nevill could tell the time by Madame Chiostro. At 
five she always came in, poked up the slumbering hand¬ 
ful of fire, lit half a dozen candles, and then brought a 
tea-tray. There would be cakes and hot buttered toast 
on the tray, and since Nevill knew she had prepared the 
repast herself—although he always begged her not to 
bother—^he would try to choke down some of it. 

In this wise he was waiting on the afternoon before 
Christmas. Madame Chiostro had decorated the stu¬ 
dio with holly, and there was fruit-cake of her own 
baking on the tray. She even went so far as to wish 
Nevill a merry Christmas before she drifted out again, 
and he was almost moved to ask her to remain and 
have a cup of tea with him, but, remembering the 
difficulties of making conversation with her, refrained. 
A tete-a-tete with Madame Chiostro would have been 
a macabre touch that he was not equal to this afternoon. 

The day before Christmas. 


OBLIGATIONS 163 

What can be sadder, drearier, than a festal season 
when the world has gone wrong? 

Outside, the wind howled steadily and battered the 
protesting trees. A cold patter of sleet drove against 
the big north window, and little .whispers disturbed the 
studio, the rustle of draperies, the soft flapping of a 
blind. Suddenly the door opened, and Chiostro ap¬ 
peared, buttoned snugly into his fur-lined coat, his 
cheeks red, the tip of his nose blue. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed briskly. “Here you are; here 
you are I Had tea ? That's good. Mama 1 ” 

Madame Chiostro dutifully appeared. 

“Home so soon, papa? Yes, I will bring fresh tea 
at once. In only a minute.” 

“You see,” said Chiostro, as she scuttled out with 
the pot and hot-water jug, “such a model wife! I do 
not even need to tell her what I want. That’s the sort 
of wife a man ought to have, my boy. There when 
wanted, but never in the way. The rarest quality in 
women. With nine hundred and ninety-nine in, a 
thousand, it’s the other way about. Women bore me, 
Davies. I’ve seen too many of them in my time. 
Tiresome creatures. Never met one who was n’t tire¬ 
some, except Madame Chiostro. Not—a—single— 
one!” 

“Has Viginia been . . . tiresome?” Nevill asked, 
trying to speak casually, but betraying himself by a 
quiver of the voice. 


164 


OBLIGATIONS 


Chiostro nodded thoughtfully. 

“You might say so; on reflection, you might.” 

It was what Nevill had been expecting. 

“I suppose she wants to know where the money’s 
coming from?” he asked. 

“She knows, unfortunately,” Chiostro confessed. 

“Oh, I say!” 

“I did n’t tell her. When she got me into a corner, 
I lied. I said I’d written to her parents, and they’d 
told me to draw on them for anything that was needed.” 

“Well ?” Nevill asked impatiently. 

“Well—” Chiostro took off his overcoat and un¬ 
wound his muffler. He was just about to speak again 
when the too quick Madame Chiostro created another 
diversion by entering with the replenished pot and jug; 
so an interval passed while he poured himself a cup of 
tea. 

Nevill lit a cigarette and tugged at his mustache as 
though determined to uproot it. Confound the man! 

Chiostro drew forward a chair and planted himself 
close enough to the fire to put his feet into it. There 
he sat, massive and discontented, stirring the sugar in 
his tea, his gaze moodily fixed on the one blazing coal 
in the tiny smoldering heap. 

“It’s too bad, too bad,” he said finally. . 

“Could n’t you tell me ?” Nevill asked with despair¬ 
ing patience. 

“I am telling you. . . . You see, she’d written to 
her mother herself. It was because of Nico and the 


OBLIGATIONS 


! i 65 

baby, she said. And the letter came back marked 
‘Address Unknown.^ So there I was, rather caught. 
She wanted to know where I’d written, and of course 
I had n’t the faintest idea. You should have told me, 
my boy. I thought they lived in New York. Any¬ 
way, I said New York. And then Virginia said: 
Tt’s no good your pretending. The money comes 
from Nevill.’ . . . Well, perhaps I blushed. Oh, yes, 
I can blush, if I’m caught in a lie. It was all up then. 
She said it was awfully kind of you, but it would n’t 
be fair to Nicholas if she took your money. But I 
made her take the chicken and cake and wine. Any¬ 
way, that was my wife’s present. And Virginia is 
going to sit to me for a picture I’m thinking of. I 
have to employ a model and she might as well have 
the job. She was delighted. She’s coming three 
days a week, and that Collins girl will look after Nico 
and the baby while she ’s here. It’s better than noth¬ 
ing for her, isn’t it?” 

Bland, shaggy-haired Chiostro suddenly became a 
most distasteful person to Nevill Davies. 

“Her husband does n’t object to her being a model, 
then?” he demanded furiously. 

“Why should he? No, he doesn’t object. Do 
you ?” 

“Yes. Most emphatically, yes.” 

“Oh, well!” Chiostro began to laugh. “No harm 
will come to her, you may be sure. She’s too skinny 
for the figure, if that’s what’s bothering you. And 


i66 


OBLIGATIONS 


I’m not likely to make love to her. That what I 
keep my wife here for, to see that I don’t get into any 
trouble of that sort. At my age, it’s too costly. . . . 
Besides, Virginia has sat to me before. Aren’t you 
forgetting?” 

‘Tt was different,” said Nevill. 

‘‘You mean that she paid me—or rather her parents 
did—and was chaperoned. Well, she ’ll be chaperoned 
now.” 

It sounded all right, but there was something in 
Chiostro’s manner that offended Nevill, and it angered 
him to think that Nicholas Wayne should prefer Vir¬ 
ginia to sit for long hours in this cold room posing to 
Fedor Chiostro, instead of being comfortable at home 
on his money. He was allowed to do nothing for her. 

“Did Wayne hear this conversation you had with 
Virginia ?” he asked. 

“No. She followed me out to the gate, and we 
talked there. But she went back to ask him if he 
would object to the sittings.” 

“And you say he agreed.” 

‘^Oh, yes, he agreed. . . . She—she sent her love to 
you.” 

“Thanks,” said Nevill. 

He had noticed a hesitation in the delivery of the 
message of affection. Chiostro had been a long time 
remembering it, and even then had brought it out 
reluctantly. 

His chicken —his cake —his wine, had been accepted, 


OBLIGATIONS 


167 

it seemed. What did it matter that he called the par¬ 
cel a present from his wife? There was slyness here; 
double dealing. Yet Nevill had an ax to grind, so 
must pretend friendliness. He managed to coax his 
ill humor to an appearance of nonchalance. 

“I’d better be going now. By the way, I don't 
suppose you'd mind if I had a little talk with Virginia 
here? I should like to see her." 

Chiostro turned his grizzled head and stared at him. 
On Nevill's side the mutual gaze developed into a 
fixed glare. 

‘Tt might upset her," Chiostro said. “She has so 
much just now to bother her, poor child." 

“I have n't the slightest intention of—of bothering 
her," Nevill said heatedly. “You know that as well 
as I do." 

Chiostro was very patient with him. 

“Of course you have n't, my boy. Of course you 
have n't! Who ever said so ? Yet I feel that it might. 
I want her to get into the mood of my picture. It's a 
study of Tranquillity that I want. You must see how 
important it is, my boy—not only to me, but to 
Virginia." 

(Less of this “my boy"!) 

“I think I understand," said Nevill. “Good after¬ 
noon. I sha'n't need to bother you any more, it 
seems." 

Chiostro struggled up to see him off. “Now, that's 
all nonsense. We shall meet at the International, of 


i68 


OBLIGATIONS 


course. I must settle with you about the money. I 
hope, my boy, that you are n’t annoyed with me. But 
of course you are n’t. Both of us want to do the best 
we can for Virginia, don’t we? If you’re tem¬ 
porarily out of the running, so much the better; I mean 
to say, so much greater is my responsibility. And 
Nico is getting on splendidly with his picture. It’s 
marvelous; and he’s rather marvelous, too. Only I 
couldn’t expect you to understand about that. We 
artists live in a different world from yours, my boy. 
Once we both realize that, we stand some faint chance 
of comprehending each other.” 

Nevill was sick of him. Fatuous, sly, double-faced 
old fool! 

The young man flung out of the house in a state of 
complete disgust. What was Fedor Qiiostro driving 
at? That tumult of words—words!—covered some¬ 
thing. At least, it tried to. Nevill thought he under¬ 
stood all too well. Different worlds, indeed! And 
to which world, please, did Virginia O’Dare belong? 
,To Chiostro’s ? Heaven forbid! In his present mood, 
Nevill almost lost sight of Nicholas Wayne. 

There had been a moment when he held Virginia’s 
hands, when her shoulders had heaved and her eyes 
filled with tears, when little choking sobs had told him 
more than speech just how she felt. There had been 
that moment, and Nevill was not likely to forget it. 
Of course Virginia would play the game. She had 
proved it by her mad marriage. Nevill admitted even 


OBLIGATIONS 


169 

to himself that she had played the game in marrying 
Nicholas. He saw her point of view and realized that 
to play straight she had been obliged to run a little 
crooked. Her parents wouldn’t have seen it eye to 
eye with her. That was why she had eloped. Not 
that Nevill himself would have helped her to commit 
such a folly. He, too, would have prevented it, had 
he known, and had it been in his power to do so. But 
there was this that he had every reason to consider in 
his favor: undoubtedly he understood Virginia. Their 
mutual confidence in each other had transcended the 
ordinary, and he was not prepared to have that con¬ 
fidence disrupted by a Fedor Chiostro. 


CHAPTER XXI 


W HEN Nevill left Chiostro's that afternoon, he 
was suddenly at a complete loss as to what to 
do with himself. 

It was past six o'clock, already dark, and the weather 
distressingly unpleasant. The icy sleet had changed 
to rain, and the wind made walking uncomfortable. 
Nevertheless, Nevill started out to walk. He could 
go to his club if he liked, that luxurious rendezvous 
of well-to-do Bohemians, where he would be certain of 
finding some one to keep him company at dinner and 
pick up a rubber of bridge afterward. But at the 
club he might so easily run into Chiostro again. The 
hotel did not attract him. There was nothing to be 
found there but an emphasized loneliness. He began 
to wish that he had run across to England, where 
Mollie would have had a warm welcome for him. 
How selfish he had been with regard to poor Mollie! 
This would be a lonely Christmas for her, too. Of 
course she would have the children, jolly little beggars; 
but they had lost good old Tom, and that was hard on 
all of them. 

Then he thought, “Well, I can catch the night train 
and be there for Christmas after all." 

But the idea did not thrill him. He would be poor 
17.0 


OBLIGATIONS 


171 

company for his young cousins, and Mollie would be 
sure to irritate him. Still—^perhaps he had better go. 
One must think of others occasionally. And what 
earthly good was he accomplishing by hanging around 
Paris? Virginia was as far removed from him as 
though she dwelt in Kamchatka, and he could not even 
watch over her by proxy now. Chiostro had swept 
him out of it. 

Mollie’s last letter had inquired plaintively if Nevill 
wouldn’t please arrange a quiet family house-party 
at Davies Hall. She had heard from the housekeeper 
and head gardener, and so many things required his 
personal attention. The housekeeper had made plum 
puddings and mince pies. It would be such a pity to 
waste them on the parish poor, who ought n’t to eat 
rich things, anyway—bad for their morals and their 
digestions, although something ought to be done for 
them. Mollie’s father and mother would love to 
come—“So we should be properly chaperoned, Nevill 
darling!”—and the children were simply wild to spend 
their holidays in the country. 

He had answered Mollie’s letter, putting Davies 
Hall, puddings, pies, and the parish poor at her com¬ 
plete disposal, but saying that he himself would be un¬ 
able to join the party. It was selfish of him, and he 
knew it. Why should he be so disagreeable ? All on ac¬ 
count of a girl who had jilted him. He knew how 
Mollie looked at it, and her point of view was 
reasonable. 


172 


OBLIGATIONS 


Yes, he must catch the night train and run across 
for a surprise visit. He could easily reach Davies 
Hall in time for the midday feast. What on earth 
could he do for Virginia by staying here? 

But immediately he had decided to go, a violent 
homesickness seized him—not for Davies Hall but for 
the cheerless friendless state he would be leaving. 
He'd be far lonelier at Davies Hall than here in Paris. 
Still, he had better go. There would n’t be much time 
in which to choose presents, but he simply couldn’t 
arrive empty-handed. 

So now he took a cab and in the arcade shops of the 
Rue de Rivoli made hurried purchases—absurdly dec¬ 
orated boxes of bonbons, grotesque toys, a jeweled 
bangle for Mollie—whatever he saw or was pressed 
upon him, until his money gave out. With his arms 
full of parcels, looking quite Christmasy in fact, he 
entered the portals of his hotel; and there the concierge 
immediately informed him that Mrs. Shaw had arrived 
that afternoon and would like to see him as soon as he 
came in. 

Mollie here, in Paris on Christmas eve? That was 
a strange proceeding. He could n’t imagine her desert¬ 
ing the children at such a time except for a matter of 
great importance. Then it flashed across him that 
perhaps she had come over for the purpose of coaxing 
him to go back with her. She was rather a creature 
of impulse, Mollie. And she thought a lot of him, 
more than he deserved. 


OBLIGATIONS 


173 

‘‘Mrs. Shaw has taken a sitting-room. No. 44, on 
the fourth floor, sir,” said the concierge. “Should I 
send the parcels up to your room, sir?” 

“Thanks,” said Nevill. 

He handed over his parcels, and a page appeared to 
escort him to Mollie’s sitting-room. 

He felt slightly vexed with Mollie, yet a little pleased, 
too. It would be comforting to talk to her. But why, 
if it were only a flying visit, had she engaged a sitting- 
room? Perhaps she had some argument to present 
which could not be threshed out in public. Money 
difficulties? No, it couldn’t be that. A final im¬ 
passioned appeal to him to give up this madness? 
Quite likely. His heart steeled itself against such an 
encounter. Who was Mollie Shaw to dictate to him? 
People were so fond of interfering in the troubles of 
others! particularly Mollie. He would be gentle with 
her but very firm, so that there should n’t remain any 
doubt on the question of who was his master. 

The page left him at the door, and when he knocked 
her voice bade him enter. 

For a second or two he stood looking at her, shot 
through with a pang of anger for the cozy, altogether 
comfortable picture she presented. In these days he 
must contrast every other woman’s circumstance with 
Virginia’s. There sat Mollie, bunched on a sofa close 
to the fire, banked with satin pillows, wrapped in a 
wonderful garment of white fur and velvet, a cigarette- 
holder held daintily between thumb and forefinger. 


174 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘‘Hello/* he said. “What *s this mean?** 

“Hello, Nevill,** Mollie replied. “Just thought I *d 
run over and have a look at you. Hope you don*t 
mind.** 

“On the contrary, I *m delighted. Only—** he 
laughed—“I thought of paying a surprise visit my¬ 
self. I was going across to England to-night.** 

Mollie unfolded herself slowly and tossed her 
cigarette into the fire. It struck him suddenly that she 
looked rather pale and that her greeting had lacked the 
effusive explanation he expected. 

“Have a rough crossing?” he asked. 

“Beastly,** said Mollie. 

“Poor old thing!” 

He sat beside her on the couch and patted the hand 
she held out for him. If Mollie had been seasick it 
would be sheer cruelty to expect her to turn straight 
around and go back to England to-night. Yes, she 
certainly looked pale and tired. What a shame that 
she *d given herself so much trouble! Leaving the chil¬ 
dren at Christmas on his account. It made his selfish¬ 
ness stand out in its true colors. 

“Nevill, I couldn’t write,” she said. “There are 
some things that look too hideous on paper. So I sim¬ 
ply had to come.** Her voice was shaken and a little 
breathless. “I felt that I must be the one to tell 
you, and that together we ’d decide what to do about 
it . . .** 

Vaguely he began to comprehend that this was not 


OBLIGATIONS 


175 

an ordinary visit of affection; that, as one puts it, 
‘'something had happened.’’ 

“What is it, Mollie?” he asked anxiously. 

“You know that letter I wrote to Edith?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well ... it came back.” 

This was not specially exciting news. That very 
afternoon he’d heard from Chiostro that Virginia 
had written to her mother and received her letter back. 

“I suppose the post-office people had n’t their 
address,” Nevill said. 

Had Mollie journeyed to Paris on Christmas eve 
merely to tell him that her letter to Edith O’Dare had 
been returned? Or was she making the letter an ex¬ 
cuse for something else ? 

“No,” she said, in that shaken, breathless voice. 
“No—they know now. Oh, Nevill, it’s terrible! 
Somebody will have to tell Virginia. Her mother and 
father are dead.” 

'^Dead!'' Nevill echoed. He felt how slow he was 
at grasping things. That cheery “young” couple dead? 
“What do you mean? How are they dead? Who 
told you ?” he asked. 

Mollie shivered and drew her warm gown together 
at the neck. She was holding it thus, the fur against 
her face, her little white hands, sparkling with rings, 
rousing a painful memory in Nevill of Virginia’s 
hands. 

“There was a newspaper paragraph about it,” Mollie 


OBLIGATIONS 


176 

said. “I ’ll show it to you presently. I Ve got it in 
my bag. There wasn’t very much—^just saying that 
Malcolm and Edith were killed in a motoring accident 
in Japan. It was a narrow road, and in swerving to 
avoid another car the one they were in went over a 
bank. The chauffeur lost control or something. It 
happened about a month ago. I don’t know why it 
was n’t reported sooner. I went straight around to 
the American embassy and saw that Mr. Duncan who 
was such a friend of theirs, and he said the news was 
quite true; he’d had it verified. He was awfully up¬ 
set. And there was a woman there, a Mrs. Chalmers 
—an American—who’d also come to find out some¬ 
thing about it. This Mrs. Chalmers seemed to know 
a lot about the O’Dares. She said Malcolm had lost 
a great deal of money lately in bad speculations and 
was in poor health, and that was why they took that 
trip. Edith thought he needed a complete change. 
. . . Well, he’s got it. Poor Malcolm—and Edith f 
Isn’t it too dreadful? They were so fond of each 
other! Like lovers, although they’d been married so 
long.” 

‘They had each other ... to the end,” said Nevill. 

“This Mrs. Chalmers asked about Virginia—” 

“What did you tell her?” Nevill was instantly in 
arms. 

“Nothing that you could possibly object to, my dear. 
I merely said she was living in St.-Cloud, and Mr. 
Duncan took down her married name and address. 


OBLIGATIONS 


177 


The lawyers will want to communicate with her of 
course, although this Mrs. Chalmers says she is sure 
poor Malcolm’s estate won’t work out at anything like 
what one would have expected. I told Mr. Duncan 
not to write to Virginia for a few days. She was 
such a curious girl, but she really was fond of her 
father and mother. And even though she has n’t seen 
them lately ... it will be a blow. Especially as you 
say she’s so hard up and worried and everything. For 
Edith’s sake, it seemed to me that I ought to do 
something.” 

There was genuine feeling in Mollie’s voice. 
*‘You ’re a brick,” Nevill said, squeezing her hand so 
hard that the rings bit into her fingers and made her 
wince sharply. 

‘^Oh, Nevill!” 

^T’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Let me see.” 

She gave him her hand, and he examined it tenderly. 
Then he kissed the reddened dents. 

“You ’re so strong, Nevill. I believe you ’re made 
of iron,” she sighed. 

If there was a double meaning in that remark, Nevill 
did n’t see it. 

“I never thought,” he said. “I’m no end grateful 
to you, Mollie. It was a fine thing for you to come 
over here—Christmas and all—leaving the kids—” 

“Oh, they ’re quite happy. Mother and dad are 
looking after them. They ’re going to have a splendid 
time. Children don’t mind anything, so long as they 


OBLIGATIONS 


178 

have a good time. It 's only we grown-ups, who fancy 
we ’re important to them. And ... to ourselves.” 

“Well, just the same it was kind of you to come. I 
know you’d far rather be with them.” 

Mollie made no reply. Her head drooped on her 
doubled fist, and she sat silent, staring into the fire. 

Nevill got up. Her nearness, the warmth of her, 
the faint perfume of violets that clung to her soft little 
person, made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. He 
gave her a quick, sidewise glance as she sat there seem¬ 
ing not to heed him, and then he lighted one of the 
inevitable cigarettes. It seemed necessary to do some¬ 
thing. How old was Mollie ? Thirty-two or possibly 
a little more? Older than he was in actual years, yet 
lately he had begun to feel so ancient that now she 
looked to him miraculously young. Suppose that 
Virginia O’Dare had never crossed his path. Eleven 
years ago, when Mollie got married and Nevill was in 
his second term at Oxford, he had imagined himself 
broken-hearted and almost refused to attend her wed¬ 
ding. Curious how a man changes. And women, 
too. In those days Mollie had laughed at him for his 
infatuation. And now? He wondered if she would 
laugh now if he tried to make love to her? He was 
not of an experimental nature where women were 
concerned, and so he did not try. It would be too dan¬ 
gerous to them both, and grossly unfair to Mollie 
should she by any chance take him seriously. But he 


OBLIGATIONS 


179 

thought it would be rather comforting to lay his head 
on her shoulder and be petted a little. Those small 
white sparkling hands! 

And then he shivered with a cold despairing ecstasy, 
in spirit dropping to his knees to press kisses upon an¬ 
other pair of hands, to crave Virginia’s forgiveness for 
those treacherous thoughts. 

‘‘What do you propose?” he asked aloud. 

Mollie started. She, too, had been wool-gathering. 

“About what? Oh, you mean telling Virginia! 
I’m sure I don’t know. Have you any suggestions ? 
Shall I go out to St.-Cloud and see her?” 

“I wonder if she’d mind,” Nevill mused. 

“Mind? Mind hearing that her father and mother 
were dead ?” 

“No, I mean your going. They ’re so wretchedly 
poor. Still—” 

“I should dress very plainly,” said Mollie. “You 
see, I’m in mourning myself. Somebody must tell 
her. Shall I write to her husband ? Perhaps he’d be 
the best one.” 

Nevill winced miserably. Was Nicholas Wayne 
the best one to tell her ? It seemed to Nevill that Vir¬ 
ginia’s husband lacked the first essence of sympathy, a 
cold, self-centered creature who would laugh when 
others wept, and weep—if he ever did—only for 
himself. 

“A letter is a harsh sort of thing—in a case of this 


i8o 


OBLIGATIONS 


sort. I think you’d better go, Mollie. It won’t be 
very pleasant for you, old girl, still—if you don’t 
mind—” 

“I ’ll go if you want me to,” Mollie said. “Poor 
Virginia 1 ” 

“You ’ll be . . . gentle with her?” 

“What do you imagine I’d be?” 

“Forgive me, my dear. I know you ’ll do your best. 
When do you think—” 

“To-morrow?” 

“But to-morrow is Christmas,” Nevill objected. “It 
seems rather dreadful to bring such news on Christ¬ 
mas day.” 

“Well, my dear Nevill—I don’t know what to say! 
But I positively promised the children I’d come back 
day after to-morrow. You know what it is when you 
promise children ? I’d rather do anything than break 
my word to them.” 

“Oh, very well! To-morrow, then,” Nevill agreed 
wearily. 

Did it matter so much, Christmas or the day after, 
as far as Virginia was concerned ? He had the feeling 
of a cowardly assassin planning to deliver a death¬ 
blow to one already sadly stricken. 

It was ungracious, however, to indulge his own mood 
when Mollie had taken so much trouble and really 
wanted to help him. She was a little pathetic about its 
being Christmas eve and the two of them cut adrift 
from home ties like this. All on account of—she 


OBLIGATIONS 


i8i 


did n’t actually say what it was on account of, but he 
knew that she considered him somewhat mad, and 
doubtless she was right. 

She brightened up considerably when he fetched the 
presents he had bought, and dived into the sweets with 
childish eagerness and proudly wore her bangle. She 
was positive that Christopher and little Tom and 
Claribel would love their Parisian playthings. Was n’t 
the monkey too charming! And that simply adorable 
doll with the thatch of yellow wool for hair—well, 
Mollie thought she would keep that herself. It was 
too ridiculously amusing to waste on Claribel. 

“And we ’re not going to sit around here and mope 
all the evening, are we?” she asked plaintively. “I 
know I’m in mourning, but poor Tom would hate me 
not to have a good time if there was any chance of my 
getting it, and this is Paris and nobody knows us. 
Besides, people in mourning don’t shut themselves up 
forever, nowadays.” 

So they went to the famous Laperouse and dined 
richly, and afterward to a lively musical show, where 
the ladies of the chorus were very pretty and gay, and 
the comedian correspondingly broad. Nevill tried to 
believe that he was enjoying himself, but with Mollie 
it was no effort. The fatigue of her journey had 
completely evaporated, and she was in high spirits. 
Supper afterward at Ciro’s, where they even danced— 
“Because, Nevill darling, nobody knows us!” 

He had the sense of being alone in a mad, rollicking 


OBLIGATIONS 


182 

world with Mollie for a companion. He was faintly 
surprised that she should have decked herself out with 
so much jewelry—was that the new fashion for a 
recently made widow?—her rings and a pearl neck¬ 
lace with a clasp of sapphires and diamonds, and the 
bangle he had given her. Still, she looked very lovely 
in her frock of misty black tulle, and more than one 
admiring glance fastened upon her, of which she was 
superbly aware. There was certainly one useful thing 
about Mollie: she helped to destroy thought. But for 
her, heaven knows what he might have been doing 
to-night. Rising with such difficulty to meet her 
mood, Nevill realized to what profound depths of 
melancholy he had fallen. 

But, alas, when it was all done with and he had said 
good night to her over a whisky and soda in her cozy 
sitting-room, he found himself back exactly where he 
was before, only a little worse off, if anything. He 
had made a sincere and doggedly patient effort to set 
Virginia aside in his mind, even were it possible in 
his heart, and he simply couldn’t do it. He hadn’t 
hoped or wished to cease loving her. It was only 
that he thought it might be possible to find room for 
other interests. Well, why disguise it? To find 
room in his heart for Mollie Shaw, should Mollie be 
willing to take the second-best place. And there was 
no room for Mollie at all; not an inch. 

They went to St.-Cloud together the next afternoon, 
and, after taking Mollie to Virginia’s gate, Nevill re- 


OBLIGATIONS 


183 

turned to wait for her at the cafe where he had been 
so rudely accosted by Nicholas Wayne. It cost an 
effort to turn back from that gate, to know that Vir¬ 
ginia was so near, yet must remain invisible to him. 
Still, there was vague comfort in the thought of being 
near her, just as there had been in getting news of her 
at first-hand from Fedor Chiostro. In a little while 
Mollie would return and bring him news. A woman’s 
eye—the eye of a woman of the world like Mollie— 
would be more discerning than that of a Chiostro. 
Chiostro half sympathized with that conceited, improv¬ 
ident Wayne. Chiostro had been concerned chiefly that 
the miserable ‘'genius” should have a chance to paint 
his picture. When the fellow could n't paint! 

“It seems to me,” Nevill meditated irritably, “that 
I’m always hanging around a cafe waiting for a 
woman.” 

This particular cafe seemed a cheerful enough spot, 
however. It had been festooned brightly with gar¬ 
lands of red and green tissue-paper and a penny-in- 
the-slot gambling-machine was doing a brisk business, 
rivaling the automatic piano. A few young couples 
were dancing, and people sat about at the little tables 
sipping coffee or syrups, mostly country-folk, family 
parties making holiday. Nevill occupied himself with 
a tumblerful of coffee, flavored strongly with chicory, 
and wondered what it was all about, why he was here, 
why anybody should have thought it necessary that he 
should be born into this world. Life had become in- 


OBLIGATIONS 


184 

credibly tedious. He thought of all the years he had 
before him if he lived to be as old as one of his grand¬ 
fathers, who had attained the ripe age of ninety-nine 
before retiring to the grave. . . . Oh, no—the idea 
was unbearable! . . . But did he want to die ? Some¬ 
how, not. One never knew what might turn up. Even 
in the midst of unhappiness, there was always the 
chance that something different lurked around the 
corner. 

The door of the cafe opened, and a red-haired girl 
came in, casting a comprehensive glance—which in¬ 
cluded Nevill—upon the assembled merrymakers. He 
recognized her instantly for the glowering young 
woman who had n’t thought any too well of Virginia’s 
housekeeping, yet who nevertheless was not herself an 
expert maker of tea. 

Had she come to look for him? Had he been sent 
for? He half rose, anxiety etched painfully in every 
line of his face. 

The girl nodded with supercilious indifference. She 
had come not for Nevill but for a bottle of wine, and 
this she proceeded to obtain at the counter. Nevill sank 
back again, angry with himself for having noticed her. 
He felt that she was laughing at him, in her sleeve so 
to speak, for certainly her mouth and eyes were any¬ 
thing but merry. He gazed out of the window with 
an indifference that matched her own when she turned 
away from the counter with her purchase. He 
trembled violently . . . here was some one else, this 


OBLIGATIONS 


185 

Marietta Collins, who was close to Virginia, lived in 
the same house with her, saw her every day, yet who 
doubtless did not appreciate her great privilege. 

The door opened and closed again, and the red- 
haired girl had gone. He saw her tap-tapping with the 
practised skill of a wire-walker on her high heels up 
the steep hill, confident, scornful, triumphant. 


CHAPTER XXII 


I NDEED, Mollie’s task was not an easy one. For 
all the lightness of her nature, she had been genu¬ 
inely fond of Edith O’Dare, and now it seemed to her 
that she had also been fond of Virginia. The little 
tumble-down peasant’s cottage might look picturesque 
in the summer-time, but in December, with the neg¬ 
lected garden filled with withered flower-stalks and 
a naked vine rattling somberly against the stained, 
damp-looking wall, it appeared merely cold and un¬ 
comfortable. Mollie felt distinctly apprehensive after 
Nevill left her at the gate and she was alone with her 
burden of bad news. 

She walked slowly up the untidy brick path and, 
after no more than a second’s hesitation, summoned 
the courage to knock. A man’s voice bade her 
come in, and, as she hesitated again, repeated the in¬ 
vitation more sharply. So she opened the door. 

Nicholas Wayne was lying propped up on the couch 
facing her. There was a smell of paint in the room 
and also of food cooking. The easel had been pushed 
into a corner with the canvas turned toward the wall, 
and the table was laid for a meal. Nicholas was par¬ 
tially dressed. An old black velvet coat clothed the 

i86 


OBLIGATIONS 


187 

upper part of him, and a rug lay over his knees. He 
had been freshly shaved; his dark hair glistened; and 
a gaily flowered handkerchief serving as a necktie gave 
him a somewhat festive appearance. 

Mollie was surprised to discover that he was un¬ 
deniably handsome, even distinguished-looking. She 
had expected to see a rather common, slovenly person 
with all of the attributes of a bully and none of those 
usually associated with a gentleman. She thought, 
“Why, he is n’t at all horrid!” Heretofore, seeing 
him through Nevill’s eyes, she had imagined him as 
very horrid, indeed. 

“I—I Ve called to see Mrs. Wayne,” she said a lit¬ 
tle helplessly. “My name is Mrs. Shaw. You ’re 
Mr. Wayne, aren’t you?” 

Nicholas produced a shy and most attractive smile. 

“Please come in—and forgive me for not getting 
up. For the moment, I’m slightly bedridden. Mrs. 
Shaw, did you say? I think I’ve heard Jinny men¬ 
tion you. You ’re a great friend of her mother’s, 
are n’t you ?” 

Mollie winced. “Yes, I—oh, Mr. Wayne, such a 
dreadful thing has happened! I don’t quite know how 
to begin.” She threw a distressed glance around the 
room as though inviting it to share her discomfiture. 

Nicholas raised himself on his pillows, the smile 
melting into an expression of deep gravity. 

“Please sit down,” he said courteously. 

Mollie pulled forward one of the hard little chairs 


i88 


OBLIGATIONS 


and fumbled for her handkerchief. She felt Nicho¬ 
las’s gaze inspecting her smart mourning and has¬ 
tened to put him right. 

^Tt’s not about myself. It’s Virginia . . . her 
father and mother. You see, Mr. Chiostro is an ac¬ 
quaintance of mine, and he told me how ill you 
were. . . (Better to leave Nevill’s name entirely 
out of this.) ‘'So I wrote to Mrs. O’Dare, and the 
other day I had news—such dreadful news! You see, 
I got no answer to my letter. In fact, it came back.” 

Nicholas’s dark brows contracted in an effort to 
comprehend what she was saying. 

“I believe my wife also wrote to her mother, and the 
letter came back,” he said. 

“Yes—you see, they ’re dead. They were both 
killed in a motoring accident.” 

Nicholas made a hurried gesture as though to re¬ 
strain her. He looked beyond her with a startled ex¬ 
pression, and, turning quickly, she saw Virginia stand¬ 
ing in the doorway leading to the bedroom—Virginia, 
in a stuff dress of faded lavender, gaunt and beautiful, 
her hair a crown of tarnished sunshine, a rosy little 
child in her arms. 

“Oh, Jinny dear—^you heard!” Mollie cried, bursting 
into tears. 

“Come here. Jinny,” Nicholas said. 

Virginia, holding the baby, crossed the room slowly 
with the abstracted manner of a sleep-walker. 

“Sit down beside me, dear.” Nicholas made room 


OBLIGATIONS 


189 

for her on the couch and put one arm around her 
waist. “Perhaps there’s been a mistake. Did you 
understand what Mrs. Shaw was saying?’’ 

“Yes, I think so. My father and mother are dead,” 
Virginia replied. Her voice was even-toned, almost 
expressionless. 

Mollie dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. 

“Poor Jinny, I meant to break it to you gently!” 
she exclaimed. 

“I wonder how? . . . My mother and father are 
dead. Oh dear—and now they ’ll never see my baby! 
. . . Oh dear I Oh dear I My head feels so funny, 
Nico—going round and round.” 

“Marietta 1” Nicholas cried sharply. 

It was n’t necessary to call twice. Instantly a quick 
clatter sounded on the stairs, and down came Marietta 
Collins. 

“I was just going out,” she cried. “What is it?” 
Her voice was aggressive to the point of impertinence, 
and she stared boldly at Mollie Shaw. 

“My wife has had bad news,” Nicholas replied. 
“I’m afraid it has upset her. Will you take Cherry?” 

“Oh, give the little darling to me!” Mollie cried, 
anxious to do something. 

She took Virginia’s baby, comforted a little by con¬ 
tact with the soft small body—Edith’s grandchild! 
Who ever could have imagined Edith O’Dare a 
grandmother ? 

Nicholas put his arms around his wife and drew her 


190 OBLIGATIONS 

head down upon his shoulder, while Marietta Collins 
spitefully rubbed her cold wrists. 

“That will do, Marietta. Bring her a glass of 
water,’’ Nicholas said. 

“Oh, thank you, I don’t want any water. I’m all 
right,” Virginia gasped. “Thank you, Marietta. . . . 
Just for the moment, Nico, I felt queer. I wanted so 
much—I can’t tell you how I’ve longed for mother 
to see Cherry. Please tell me about it, Mrs. 
Shaw. Did you come all the way from London just 
purposely— 

“Yes, we—I thought a letter would be too dreadful,” 
Mollie said, her face against the gurgling baby’s. 
“And I might as well have written. I thought and 
thought how best to tell you. Jinny dear, and now 
I’ve blurted it out in the most brutal fashion. It was 
an accident, and I believe they were killed instantly, 
poor darlings—quite painless . . .” She went on to 
give what information she had, even to there being 
little or no money left by the unfortunate O’Dares. 
She wondered what effect this particular item of bad 
news would have on Nicholas Wayne, but he gave no 
sign of being affected by it one way or the other. 
His main care was trying to soften the blow to Vir¬ 
ginia, and Mollie’s impression of them was a strug¬ 
gling young couple who were very fond of each other. 
Virginia had turned to Nicholas quite as naturally as 
any wife would turn to her husband. 

During the recital of details Marietta Collins left 


OBLIGATIONS 


191 

the room and presently they heard the gate click be¬ 
hind her. 

Mollie mentioned Mr. Duncan of the embassy and 
the Mrs. Chalmers she had run into there, but still 
she did not mention Nevill, nor did Virginia, and 
gradually she realized that Nicholas Wayne did not 
in any way associate her with Nevill. It was just 
as well. She got a less prejudiced impression of him 
than would have been had Nevill’s relationship to her 
embarrassed the conversation. 

She was slightly impatient in her mind toward 
Nevill as she took her way down the hill again. Of 
course the Waynes were hard up financially; anybody 
could see that; but Mollie had not been able to dis¬ 
cover anything that pointed to Virginia's being dis¬ 
satisfied with her poor circumstances. It seemed to 
Mollie that Virginia was not even aware of their pov¬ 
erty. She was exactly the same, just a vague sort of 
enigma as she had been before she was carried out of 
herself by Nevill for a brief season. The real Vir¬ 
ginia was this vague enigma. There had been a mo¬ 
ment when the sharp little cries of “Oh dear!” had 
overwhelmed her and she seemed on the verge of be¬ 
ing human, but it had passed quickly. It was Mollie 
who had wept, not Virginia. 

“It is n't that she's exactly cold-hearted,” mused 
Mollie, as she hurried down the steep hill to the cafe 
where Nevill was waiting. “No—I would n't call 
Virginia cold-hearted. ... I wonder what it is? She 


192 


OBLIGATIONS 


simply shuts herself up. Reserved is such a vulgar 
and easy way of explaining her. No, I would n’t call 
Virginia reserved. Not that, exactly. Perhaps poor 
Edith was right. Virginia may not be quite, quite 
normal. She may not feel things the way most of 
us do.” 

At that point in her cogitations, Mollie was diverted 
by the sight of Marietta Collins returning from the 
wine-shop with a claret-bottle in the crook of her arm. 
They pretended not to see each other. 

“What a strange-looking girl!” thought Mollie. 
“She must be the one Nevill mentioned. He did n’t 
care much for her, and neither do I. I did n’t at all 
like the way she spoke. So familiar and abrupt! . . . 
I wonder if I’ve been a long time. Poor Nevill! 
Oh, poor, poor Nevill!” 

Back in the tumble-down cottage, Nicholas Wayne 
was also trying to come to some understanding of his 
wife. He, too, had been stirred by Virginia’s threat¬ 
ened collapse. Only once before had he ever wit- 
nessed anything approaching a breakdown on her part, 
and there were several reasons why that former oc¬ 
casion did not stand out vividly in his memory. He 
recollected it dimly, that she had gone upon her knees 
beside his bed and prayed in an absurd fashion, 
whether .to him or to her Creator he was not quite 
sure. The memory, though obscured by pain and 
cognac, had left behind it a pleasurable sense of ex¬ 
citement. In fact, it had touched Nicholas, for all he 


OBLIGATIONS 


193 

had been brusque with her at the time. It seemed 
somehow to show that she cared for him. 

But those brief moments of revelation passed. 

After Mollie left, Virginia concerned herself with 
the Christmas dinner, which was now considerably 
belated. Chiostro’s chicken unfortunately was done to 
a crisp, although not actually to a cinder. Virginia 
apologized as she took it from the oven. She mashed 
potatoes and made gravy according to the American 
fashion, thickened as Nicholas liked it. But she got 
it too thick and a little lumpy. 

He played mechanically with the baby while Vir¬ 
ginia attended to these things^ all the time watching 
her, flinging in a friendly word whenever she ex¬ 
pressed her dissatisfaction with culinary results. 

‘Tt’s all right. Jinny. I don’t care a hang what 
Marietta says, you ’re a dandy cook, really. . . . 
Honey, you know I don’t mind what I eat. You ’re a 
fine little sport, Jinny—the way you’ve taken this— 
this business. All of it, I mean. I guess I under¬ 
stand what you’ve been through—^what you ’re going 
through. Somebody ought to lick tar out of me—” 
^‘Oh, nor 

Virginia turned upon him, whitely passionate, the 
gravy-spoon in her hand dripping brown splotches 
upon the floor, which on this occasion had been 
scrubbed by Marietta. 

‘^No, Nico, you must n’t say that. Please don’t. 
It hurts me. If only you ’ll get well again! It would 


194 


OBLIGATIONS 


be the most perfect miracle if you’d get completely 
well. I don’t want anything better than that. ... I 
think dinner’s ready.” She looked about in a stricken 
fashion, aware that of course there’d be something 
she would have forgotten. ‘‘Oh—the bread! Oh, I 
did n’t have time to clean the knives. Where are they ? 
Oh, here they are, in the scullery. Marietta cleaned 
them. She is so kind, Nico! I know you don’t like 
her, and I admit she’s a little queer; but certainly she 
has been kind to us during your illness. What would 
I have done without Marietta? Look, she’s left a 
little pot of currant jelly. Did you hear her come in? 
I ought to thank her—” 

‘We ’ll have our dinner first. You can thank her 
afterward,” growled Nicholas. “Time enough for 
that.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


A fter the meal was disposed of, Virginia cleared 
the table and went into the scullery to wash the 
dishes. Nicholas had noticed that she ate very little, 
but it was not expected that she would have much ap¬ 
petite, considering Mollie Shaw's news. He had tried 
to coax her, and she had done her best to respond; but 
the rather hearty fare, coming after weeks of semi¬ 
starvation, sickened her. To augment Chiostro’s do¬ 
nation, Marietta had given them a small Christmas 
pudding, and Madame Dessau, the doctor's wife, had 
sent a thick wedge of rich-looking cake and a bottle 
of brandied peaches. 

If it hadn't been for the news about Malcolm and 
Edith O'Dare, Nicholas would have enjoyed the festa 
tremendously. Yesterday Chiostro had been superbly 
flattering about his picture, and the praise had gone 
to his head with more potency than wine. It was a 
grim picture, a terrible picture; but it was Jinny and 
Cherry and their poverty in all its stark reality, and 
Fedor Chiostro prophesied that it would be the pic¬ 
ture of the year, if only Nico could get it ready in time 
for the spring Salon, and—what might be more diffi¬ 
cult—accepted. It was virtually finished now. 

195 


OBLIGATIONS 


196 

If only he could finish it! And he could, even 
working slowly, if he did n’t get well too soon and be 
forced by circumstances back to his soul-killing task 
at the palace. But he was getting better. He could 
hobble about a little now, if he wanted to. 

The picture obsessed him. At all hours of day¬ 
light Virginia had to pose for him, with or without 
the baby in her lap. She rose before dawn now, in 
order to attend to the housework and be ready to sit 
when Nicholas wanted her. She did their washing 
and ironing after dark. Nicholas had agreed to her 
posing three days a week for Chiostro merely because 
she showed him an empty purse and he realized that 
while they might live on next to nothing it was im¬ 
possible to live on nothing at all. He agreed with her, 
too, that they could not go on accepting Fedor 
Chiostro’s charity. Nicholas believed that the money 
had come from Chiostro. Fortunately for his peace 
of mind, the thought of Nevill Davies had faded into 
the background. 

While he admitted the necessity for her earning 
what she could to help out in this crisis, Nicholas 
chafed at the idea of her going into Paris three days 
a week. Of course Marietta would look after the 
baby, and he could manage to look after himself, but 
he hated the thought of Virginia’s being away. It 
was not entirely selfish, although the loss to himself 
was of paramount importance. During his illness he 
had had leisure in which to observe his wife closely, 


OBLIGATIONS 


197 


and he had suddenly come to see her with a newer, 
clearer vision. His own ineptitude revolted him. 
Her soft inquiring silences, that strange little doubt¬ 
ful smile of hers, the shadowed eyes that always 
seemed to be questioning him—although he did not 
know what they asked—her patience and gratitude to 
Marietta, all made a new and deep impression on 
Nicholas. Before, he had loved her for her beauty, 
enjoyed her charm, been repelled at times by her re¬ 
moteness, tried to break down the intangible barrier 
with wild passionate love-making, then sometimes 
sulked and left her alone. He had thought more 
about possession than the gentler aspects of love, and 
he knew that he had never really possessed Virginia. 
There had been times during those first two years 
when he had come very near to telling her to go back 
to her parents and leave him in peace. That was the 
trouble of her, she gave him no peace, yet quietude 
was Virginia’s dominant characteristic. She never 
nagged, and it was impossible to quarrel with her, al¬ 
though once or twice she had asserted herself in a 
fashion that ought to have led to a quarrel but did n’t. 
A veil of mystery shrouded her, and Nicholas had felt 
that if he did n’t tear it away and discover the man¬ 
ner of woman so effectually concealed, he would go 
stark, staring mad. 

But lately he had felt differently about her. He 
felt that she was pathetic and had been badly used—by 
him. Some trick of memory carried him back to the 


OBLIGATIONS 


198 

day of his accident. It was her lunch he had wolfed 
that day. He had always remembered Sophie’s cook¬ 
ies and the delicious home-made bread and jelly. 
Nothing like it had ever come his way before. Even 
then he had ill-used Jinny, the generous little girl who 
had so willingly given him her lunch. He had taken 
her food and forgotten all about her, even the fact that 
she was the same little girl who had been pushing 
him when the swing broke. It seemed curious that 
Jinny should have remembered that accident, too; 
even his name; that it should have bothered her. 

And now they were married. 

He shifted restlessly on the broken couch and waited 
for her to come out of the scullery. He wanted to 
talk to her. Why could n’t Marietta wash the dishes ? 

It was a gray, dankly cold afternoon. The leafless 
vine scratched and tapped at the side of the window; 
the unreliable clock ticked crankily; and the exhausted 
fire smoldered in a sulky fashion after its labors on 
behalf of dinner. The baby, who had a slight cold, 
was having her nap. She would sleep for another 
hour or more. 

“Jinny!” Nicholas called. 

Virginia appeared instantly, almost as though she 
had been waiting to be called, as though she had been 
waiting for that imperative summons before announc¬ 
ing a plan of her own. She had on her hat and coat 
and a muffler that Marietta had knitted for Nicholas, 


OBLIGATIONS 


199 

and her hands were incased in brown cotton gloves. 
The hat was very shabby, and the coat was a cheap 
black garment that she had bought ready-made the 
winter before; yet, withal, Virginia was imperishably 
lovely as she stood in the doorway mutely questioning 
her husband. 

*‘Oh!” he exclaimed, a little disappointed. ^‘Must 
you go out, Jinny?” 

*Tf you don’t particularly need me, Nico.” 

*T don’t need you. I only wanted you. Where 
are you going?” 

She answered vaguely, and he noticed that her shad¬ 
owed eyes were faintly rimmed with pink. She had 
been crying. About her father and mother, of course. 

“I just thought I . . . must get out, Nico. I 
won’t be long.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“I thought I—I thought I should like to go to 
vespers.” 

“Very v/ell,” he said grudgingly. “But is n’t it 
early ?” 

“I thought I’d like to take a brisk walk first. I’ve 
got a headache.” 

He held out his hand, and when she gave him hers 
he drew her down and kissed her thin cheek. 

“Poor old girl! Pretty rotten for you. It’s a 
shame that Mrs. Shaw chose to-day to tell you.” 

“Oh, the day doesn’t matter,” Virginia said. “I 


200 


OBLIGATIONS 


can’t help thinking about them . . . wishing they 
could have seen Cherry. And I wish I had written to 
mother before.” 

“I guess that was my fault,” Nicholas said con¬ 
tritely. Then he added with a flash of grim passion: 
“It’s all my fault! I ought never to’ve taken you 
away like I did. I must have been mad. Jinny, I 
love you so much! You’ve given me everything in 
the world worth having—” 

“Oh, Nico!” Her breast rose dramatically, and 
spots of color suffused her cheeks. “Oh, Nico! Is 
that true?” She clasped her hands together with an 
ecstatic gesture. 

Nicholas wondered: “What on earth? Is the kid 
really crazy fond of me, and keeping it to herself? 
But why?” Aloud he said: “Course it’s true, little 
fathead. Now trot off and have your walk, but I 
would n’t sit too long in church if I were you. You 
might catch a chill or something.” 

Virginia nodded. That hovering smile was etched 
in the corners of her lips. She looked like a woman 
in the possession of a precious secret. Nicholas 
watched her go, embarrassed, awkwardly graceful as 
she slipped away from his possessive hand, and he 
wondered again: “The kid’s a deep one! . . . Yet 
it pleased her when I said that. Perhaps I don’t say 
such things often enough. Do I ? Jinny’s a woman, 
and I ought n’t to forget it, even if she does get me 
guessing half the time.” After the gate had clicked 


OBLIGATIONS 201 

behind her, he hoisted himself up again and bawled, 
“Marietta!’’ 

This time Marietta kept him waiting, and he grew 
quite peevish before she finally appeared. 

“Well?” she inquired sullenly. 

“Didn’t you hear me?” Nicholas demanded. 

“What if I did? Am I your slave?” 

He suddenly recollected that she was not his slave, 
although there had been plenty of times lately when 
she had seemed to glory in riveting her own chains. 

“Sorry ... I thought—never mind.” 

Then Marietta turned meek. Such a demure pic¬ 
ture of abnegation as she presented, her eyelids low¬ 
ered, her hands clasped loosely, her attractive sulky 
mouth drooping sorrowfully. 

“Oh, Mr. Wayne, it’s me that should ask your 
pardon I I did n’t mean anything. Only—” She 
peered up at him, hoping perhaps that he’d ask her 
what she really had meant. 

“Where’s your father ?” was the question he did 
ask. 

Marietta’s eyelids lowered again. Little gleams— 
anger, disappointment?—showed at the corners. 

“Dad? Oh, God knows! Making a day of it, I 
dare say. As well as a night before and an evening 
after.” 

“Lonny wants to be careful,” Nicholas said. “Dr. 
Dessau’s stood a lot from him.” 

“Indeed, he ought to be careful, Mr. Wayne. But 


202 OBLIGATIONS 

all of us has to stand a lot from somebody—even 
you do” 

Nicholas's lips quivered toward speech, but what he 
thought he had to say got no further. He waited. 

*Ts there anything else you want?" Marietta asked. 

“Nothing, thanks. Well, you might put a little 
coal on the fire. Never mind; perhaps I can manage 
it myself." 

But Marietta was already at the fire, exclaiming 
pettishly over the neglected condition in which it had 
been left. 

“I suppose," she drawled, between pokes and shak¬ 
ings, “she was in such a hurry to get out that she 
couldn't wait for—for anything." 

Nicholas assumed, and quite correctly, that Marietta 
was referring to Virginia. Her impertinent manner 
angered him. Yet was n't it undignified to quarrel 
with Marietta? Besides being ungrateful. The girl 
did n't know any better. One made a mistake in tak¬ 
ing the slightest notice of her. Poor child! Mother¬ 
less, and although old Lonny was a good enough sort, 
one could scarcely call him a model father. Marietta 
carried a lot on her shoulders. A pretty girl, if she 
did n't always look so devilish cross, and if she'd learn 
to dress a little less obviously. With the eye of an 
artist he examined Marietta's attire. Her dress was 
of red velvet—^velveteen—^very short and skimpy, and 
embellished with a black cotton-back satin sash. A 


OBLIGATIONS 


203 

long string of cheap crystal beads swayed from her 
neck and got in her way as she bent over the scuttle. 
She manoeuvered her hands daintily. Virginia would 
have had hers black after a scuffle with the coals. 
Marietta was quick and sure on those high heels; her 
red hair glistened with pomade and had been rigor¬ 
ously marcelled. In her way she was as mysterious as 
Virginia, but Marietta’s might be described as an ob¬ 
vious mystery. She was out to attract—^whom, what ? 
At the same time she baffled. She had her sincerities, 
too. There was no reticence in her adoration of 
Cherry. She was like a fawning dog over the baby. 
She hated Virginia, yet there was a reticence about 
that. Sometimes she moved in such a way that one 
wondered if she were not struggling to maintain her 
aversion; as though she hated against her instincts, or 
liked against her better judgment. She would do all 
manner of disagreeable tasks for Virginia, be what 
Virginia consistently called “kind,” and yet was fierce 
and ugly and mean about it. 

Nicholas groaned in spirit: “Heaven save me, but 
every woman I get to know teaches me almost too 
much, and I’m beginning to think I can’t assimilate 
any more knowledge. . . . What did Marietta mean 
about Jinny’s being in such a hurry to get out? Or 
didn’t she mean anything? Was it just her pleas¬ 
ant little beastly way?” 

“The fire ’ll burn now. But the stove could do with 


204 


OBLIGATIONS 


a blacking. Only it has to be cold. I ’ll black-lead it 
first thing in the morning. Would you like some tea, 
Mr. Wayne?” 

''Good heavens, no! Just finished lunch.” 

"Shall I bring my sewing down and keep you com¬ 
pany ?” 

"Thanks—er—^my wife will be back presently.” 

Marietta was putting some plates straight on the 
dresser, and her back was toward him. Her shoulders 
heaved in a skeptical shrug, and she muttered below 
her breath, but sufficiently clearly to be heard, "I 
would n’t be too sure about that if I was you.” 

Nicholas dragged himself to a sitting position. He 
was thoroughly angry now, and when his temper was 
roused no power on earth could check it. He’d have 
a low vulgar row with Marietta Collins and get it over. 
Do him good. He needed a row, some outlet for the 
pent-up emotions bred of these weeks of lying here 
thinking of death and life and love and art and where 
the money was coming from' to support any or all of 
them. 

"Perhaps you ’ll be good enough to tell me what 
you mean?” he rapped out. "Instead of slyly beating 
around the bush all the time and throwing out dark 
hints. What do you mean? And if you don’t mean 
anything, you’d better say so darn quick.” 

He did n’t believe that he had frightened Marietta, 
although she gave an impression of wishing him to 
believe it. She took a cotton handkerchief wdth a 


OBLIGATIONS 


205 


border of cheap lace from the folds of her bodice, 
shook it out, thereby drenching the atmosphere with 
a musty odor purporting to be perfume, and pressed 
it to her quaking mouth. The gesture was theatrical 
and would have amused Nicholas had he not been 
aware of some deadly purpose behind it. 

'm not going to tell you. The last time I told 
you, you pretty near snapped my head off. Not for 
me—again!’’ 

“You’d better tell me. . . . Here, don’t you go 
away!” She was starting for the door. 

With an effort of which he had not known him¬ 
self capable, Nicholas rose and lurched to intercept 
her. He caught hold of her round warm arms and 
felt the quickening blood throb under the pressure 
of his fingers. Marietta swayed close to him, began 
to shiver and cry a little, her red head bumping against 
his chest, a helpless sort of terror engulfing her. Was 
it all acting? 

“What’s the matter with you ? Don’t be a silly 
little fool. I’m not going to eat you. Only—you 
began it, Marietta, and by God, you’ve got to finish 
it. D’you understand? You said something, hinted 
something . . . you ’re always doing it . . . but this 
was particular.” 

“Let me go!” shrieked Marietta. 

He let her go, with disgusted violence. What had 
he been doing, holding her arms like that? Spiteful 
little devil. Suppose Jinny had come in. 


2 o 6 


OBLIGATIONS 


Marietta became cool and half-way collected. She 
patted her glistening hair, smoothed down her frock, 
shook out her handkerchief again. Nicholas decided 
that he had really been moved to quarrel with her be¬ 
cause the reds of her hair and her dress were so frankly 
at war that he had succumbed instinctively to their 
martial suggestion. 

Although she had clamored for release, she did not 
immediately take advantage of her opportunity. In 
fact, she lingered. 

'‘Well?’' Nicholas inquired. 

“It's all very well for her," Marietta panted. 
“You 're fond of her. It's always the way. And if 
I told you what I know, you'd only go for me— 
same's you did before. But I will tell you! You can 
kill me if you like—but I will tell you. Where's your 
wife gone? Do you know?" 

“I—" Nicholas choked and could get no further. 
He sat down on the couch and held himself rigidly at¬ 
tentive. 

Marietta was talking—wildly, breathlessly, as 
though she feared interruption at every word. 

“ . . . He was waiting there in the Cafe des 
Touristes—^you know, Gidot's cafe—having coffee, 
and looking out of the window, watching . . . wait¬ 
ing. That Sir Davies man, the one who came be¬ 
fore and I caught them—him and her—holding hands 
and crying over each other. You know, I told you, 
and you were so angry. Your wife! I was telling 


OBLIGATIONS 


207 


you about her, and you would n’t listen. But it’s true 
— true! She’s deceiving you. Oh, Mr. Wayne, be¬ 
lieve me—I know the world. It’s all just rotten. But 
you ’re too good, too trusting. There is n’t many men 
—well, never mind about that! But I had to tell you, 
and, anyway, you made me. You said I must tell 
you— 

'‘This is all a pack of lies,” Nicholas gasped. “You 
—you red-headed fiend! I don’t believe a word of 
it.” 

Marietta’s face turned deathly white; even her lips 
were pale. 

“Why should I lie to you?” she asked in a hoarse 
whisper. 

“I—oh, I don’t know. Because you dislike my wife, 
I suppose.” 

“I don’t dislike her . . . always. Well, believe me 
or not, as you please. Why don’t you ask her? Tell 
her I saw him and see what she says.” 

“You’d better go up-stairs now,” Nicholas replied. 

Marietta hesitated; then she went slowly out, walk¬ 
ing a little insecurely as though for the first time 
aware of her perilous foot-gear. 

Nicholas sat on the couch for a few moments star¬ 
ing out of the window. The short December day was 
drawing in, and it looked so chill and gray outside. 
He hated the sound of the vine tapping at the pane, 
just like the dry fingers of some dead thing. 

^'Why don't you ask her? . . . See what she says?' 


208 


OBLIGATIONS 


Marietta’s impassioned voice seemed still to echo 
from every corner of the room. 

What should he ask Jinny? 

Oh, why be stupid and try to deceive oneself? 
Marietta’s meaning had been plain enough. In his 
mind’s eye, Nicholas pictured the scene—Gidot’s cafe 
where Marietta always bought her wine; it was at Gi¬ 
dot’s Nicholas had caught Nevill Davies waiting that 
other time, only Marietta knew nothing about that. 
Davies waiting there all this Christmas afternoon to 
keep a secret appointment with Virginia. He’d had 
a long wait. That Mrs. Shaw had taken up unexpected 
time and thrown dinner back considerably. But he 
had waited, no doubt, and Jinny was with him now. 
Was it, indeed. Marietta who had lied? 

After a little while Nicholas dragged himself into the 
bedroom and completed his imperfect toilet. He was 
going out, if it killed him. He was going to find them, 
no matter how long it took. First he’d go to the Cafe 
des Touristes. They might still be there. He got his 
overcoat and put it on, but Virginia herself had taken 
his scarf. Very well, he would catch cold and perhaps 
worse, which would be a good job. His sticks? Con¬ 
found it, where were they? Hidden. No, here be¬ 
hind the door. His hat? That had entirely disap¬ 
peared. However, if he was going to catch cold he 
could manage it more successfully without a hat. 

Marietta popped her head in the door, like a crimson 
jack-in-the-box. 


OBLIGATIONS 


209 


“You Te never— No, you Te not! Mr. Wayne, 
you must be mad. What would the doctor say ? Oh, 
Mr. Wayne, please— 

He pushed her aside and stumped through the kitchen 
to the garden door. Marietta following, picking at his 
sleeve, whining, pleading. 

“Oh, Mr. Wayne, you look so dreadful! Your face 
is so white! You must n’t go out. Why, you ’re 
scarcely supposed to be out of bed. You ’ll catch your 
death of cold. . . . Oh, what shall I do?” 

“Mind your own business,” stormed Nicholas. 
“Since you want to know—that’s what you can do. 

He flung recklessly out of the house, scarcely leaning 
on the sticks at all. 

The wind tossed his hair into violent disorder, and 
his black eyes glittered wildly. He thought to him¬ 
self : “I’m going mad. This is awfully funny. Me 
going mad because of a woman who does n t care a 
damn for me. I wonder what Toinette and the others 
would say to that! Serve me right. Toinette would 
laugh ... if she’s still alive. The last time I saw 
her she said she was going to drown herself. Well, 
I might do worse than that. Only the river’s so 
beastly cold. It would be just my luck, too, if some¬ 
body pulled me out. ... I don’t love her. I hate her 

_sly, deceitful . . . that’s her mystery—as old as 

Egypt—a wife deceiving her husband. Pretending to 
be pleased because I said she d made me happy. 
Thought she’d pulled the wool over my eyes nicely. 


210 


OBLIGATIONS 


And so she had! If it had n’t been for Marietta . . 

He went on, muttering at first, then speaking aloud; 
it seemed to himself that he shouted. He had to shout 
to hear his own thoughts above the hum of the wind. 

But something very queer had happened as regarded 
his infirmity. He was not depending upon his sticks; 
he was not even limping. Yet he failed to notice this 
tremendous thing. He, who could scarcely remember 
the sensation of walking freely as other men, was strid¬ 
ing along with almost the gait of an athlete. 

At the bottom of the hill he made for the bright 
lights of the Cafe des Touristes. From outside he 
could see the whole room. It was fairly crowded with 
dancers now, and all the little tables were occupied. 
Was it necessary to go in ? Neither Virginia nor Nevill 
Davies was there. Of course Virginia would n’t show 
herself in that mob of peasants. He might have real¬ 
ized that before. 

A little less swiftly Nicholas mounted the hill again. 
Then it suddenly dawned upon him that he was walking 
free, upright, and swinging his sticks instead of leaning 
upon them. He went breathless, almost with a feeling 
of nausea. Yes, he must be mad, to imagine such a 
thing, for it could only be pure imagination. He halted 
outside the doctor’s villa and leaned against the wall, 
then lifted his sticks and looked doubtfully at them. 
What would happen if he were to throw them away? 
Would that, also, be imagination? If he threw them 


OBLIGATIONS 211 

into the middle of the road, and then tried to walk over 
and pick them up? 

But it was probably just momentary; the result of 
agitation, shock. What was it that big doctor from 
the institute had said? Something to do with nerve- 
centers, and they should n’t have kept him strapped to 
a board all those years. “If,” the great man had said, 
“he could forget himself, he’d be cured. Meanwhile 
—massage and electricity.” 

Well, he’d had all that, and he had forgotten himself 
—forgotten supremely! 

So Jinny with her infidelity had done him this mi¬ 
raculous service! 

He felt like shouting with laughter, but he could only 
stand there trembling like a baby first learning to walk. 
The wind rushed by him; it was very dark, the impene¬ 
trable blackness punctuated only by the dull red lamp 
hanging over the doctor’s gate, and a street-light here 
and there down the avenue. Nicholas’s face was wet 
with perspiration, and he quivered pitifully from head 
to foot, but he made his experiment with all courage. 
He flung the two sticks as far as he could. Somewhere 
on the frozen road they fell with a sharp clatter. Two 
people went by, and he remained leaning against the 
wall until they were well past. 

“Now! . . . Like stepping off a cliff into the sea. 
Yet I did it before and never even noticed. Why, I 
walked all the way back from Gidot’s swinging ’em. 


212 


OBLIGATIONS 


Yes, I did, too! Come on, Nico, don’t be a cowardly 
fool.” 

He stepped out, at first gingerly, then with a rising 
confidence that became slightly hysterical and threat¬ 
ened to choke him. He wanted to laugh and felt tears 
running down his cheeks. At the curb he missed his 
step in the dark and plunged forward, falling heavily 
upon his hands and knees. But he was up again with¬ 
out giving himself time to think or be afraid. 

He did not find the sticks. They had vanished into 
the night, and it was dull sport poking about for them ; 
so he gave it up. ‘T can get home,” he panted. ^‘Yes, 
I can get home all right.” 

He was opposite the doctor’s gate now, and dimly 
beyond he saw the three steps that led up to the garden. 

Why not go in and proclaim himself to Dr. Des¬ 
sau ? It was a fitting moment. He felt that he needed 
moral if not medical support. This precious thing, 
he dared not risk losing it again. Sheer terror clutched 
him at the mere idea. To be a cripple again—he who 
had walked bravely for, say, half an hour out of a seem¬ 
ing lifetime! No—not Perhaps Jinny would care 
for him if he were no longer a cripple. 

He went up the three steps with no greater effort 
than it had taken him to climb the hill. This was a 
miracle. 

At the door he paused, caught his breath, mopped 
his streaming face with his coat-sleeve. 

A miracle. 


OBLIGATIONS 


213 


But he had no one to share the joy of it with him. 
Dr. and Mme. Dessau, Lonny, Marietta—who were 
they? Oh, of course they’d be pleased, but not one 
of them could understand what this meant to him, a 
man under life-sentence suddenly pardoned, the prison 
doors flung open, told to go—go free on his own feet. 
Oh, God, of course they could n’t understand! Not 
one of them had ever been in such a prison. He re¬ 
fused to think of Virginia any more than he could pos¬ 
sibly help, although it was she who unconsciously had 
wrought the thing. Through his passionate love and 
hatred of her, through the jealousy that had driven him 
close to madness, through rage, piteous desire, and a 
misery of soul too deep to be gaged by ordinary people, 
he had been shocked into forgetfulness of himself; 
and in forgetting himself he had forgotten his cruel 
infirmity. 

The Dessaus apparently were giving a party. 
Nicholas could not see into the dining-room because 
the curtains were drawn, but there were bright lights 
and the sound of hearty laughter. Still, the doctor 
would see him; he only wanted a moment. 

He rang the bell, and in a moment plump little Ma¬ 
dame Dessau bustled to the door. 

“Who is it ?” she asked, peering out into the dark¬ 
ness. She had on her Sunday bonnet and wrap and 
was evidently just going out or had recently come in. 

“It’s me—Wayne,” Nicholas replied. “Could I see 
the doctor a moment?” 


214 


OBLIGATIONS 


^'Monsieur Wayne The doctor’s wife shrieked 
unbelievingly. “But it cannot be you, monsieur! 
You are ill in bed.” 

“No,” Nicholas replied. “You see that it is not so. 
And I have no sticks; I am walking without them.” 

“Come in, come in. We are in the dining-room. 
Your wife is here. I persuaded her to stop for a glass 
of wine after vespers. It was so cold. But, monsieur, 
I do not understand. Madame Wayne said nothing 
about this—^this—” 

“Miracle,” Nicholas finished. “She does n’t know.” 

“But, monsieur, you are walking just as though— 
mon Dieu! Felix—Felix!” 

She ran ahead and opened the dining-room door, 
throwing a shaft of light into the passage. The room 
was full of people, relatives no doubt, come to exchange 
the compliments of the season. A coffee-pot hissed 
on the air-tight stove, and cake and decanters were 
set out on the table. 

In the midst of this scene of domestic festivity, Vir¬ 
ginia sat holding a small wine-glass in one of her 
shabbily gloved hands. She looked tragically sad, her 
eyes heavy with secret tears, yet she was smiling, grate¬ 
ful for the neighborly attention that had been paid 
her. When she saw Nicholas she arose slowly and set 
her glass down on the table. Then her startled gaze 
flew from him to Dr. Dessau. The other people fell 
silent. They did not know what was happening or 
had happened that seemed of such tremendous impor- 


OBLIGATIONS 


215 


tance, although it was apparent that the sudden entry 
of the tall, bareheaded young man had created a 
sensation. 

The doctor gave a pious ejaculation and stood staring 
in fascination as Nicholas walked into the room. 

‘‘You see exclaimed Madame Dessau. “He walks 
without the sticks. It is a miracle—a miracle on the 
day of our Blessed Saviour’s birth.” She crossed her¬ 
self piously. 

Virginia put her hands to her face and began to sob. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


T hey sat up very late that night, Nicholas and 
Virginia. 

In the light of what had happened to him he fore¬ 
bore to question her about Nevill. As a matter of 
fact, great doubt had already been cast upon Marietta's 
spiteful story. According to the doctor’s wife, during 
the hysterical clamor which had followed that first 
hush of his dramatic entry, Virginia and she had at¬ 
tended vespers together. To Madame Dessau it had 
seemed essentially connected with his cure that Vir¬ 
ginia and she had been in church on their knees 
when it happened, and certainly no one could dispute 
her faith nor say what it might or might not have 
achieved. The doctor was not a religious man, but 
even he had not challenged his wife’s claim. 

“She was very unhappy about the loss of her parents, 
poor Madame Wayne,” said the doctor’s wife. “And 
I said to her, 'Madame, you must thank the good God 
for the mercies you have.’ And then I felt a little sorry 
and ashamed, for poor madame has had such a lot of 
trouble lately. So I lit two candles to Our Lady and 
begged intercession for Madame Wayne. We knelt 
together, she and I . . .” 

And now, back in the cottage, Nicholas was humbled, 
2i6 


OBLIGATIONS 


217 


awe-struck by what had happened to him. He was 
also tired and greatly confused. Had the prayers cured 
him, or was it the severe shock administered by Mari¬ 
etta? He felt that he detested Marietta and never 
wanted to see her again. Fortunately to-night she was 
out and Nicholas shut the kitchen door so that she could 
not gape in on them when she returned. 

He said to himself: “I was right. She lied’’; and 
he did n’t tell Virginia why he had started out hatless 
in the night. 

‘‘Shall I wake up to-morrow and find it’s only a 
dream?” he asked wistfully, as Virginia began to lay 
the table for their supper. 

She paused, her arms full of plates, and smiled upon 
him. 

“No, it’s real, Nico dear. And you must n’t for one 
moment let yourself think it is n’t. Dr. Bergaud told 
me it might happen—but he thought it could only come 
through some great shock. He said you ought to 
have grown out of it years ago, and would have if 
you’d had the right sort of treatment.” 

“A great shock,” Nicholas repeated. He looked up 
at her. “Well, I had one.” 

“You mean hearing about poor mother and father? 
I did n’t realize. How kind of you to care so much, 
Nico!” 

He said nothing. 

She went on laying the table, and he watched her 
attentively. That inner flame, a curious luminous 


2 i 8 


OBLIGATIONS 


quality her skin possessed, thrilled him. He wondered 
if he could ever quite catch it to set on canvas. 

“This is the most wonderful day of our lives,Vir¬ 
ginia said later, when the supper was cleared away and 
she was occupied with some mending. 

“It has been a sad day for you, poor Jinny,” Nicholas 
replied. 

“Yes—^but God has softened that blow. I can only 
be happy when I think of you.” 

“You did n’t like a crippled husband. Well, don’t 
be too sure it will last. To-morrow—” 

“Please, Nico. I can’t bear it if you ’re going to 
be cynical.” 

“I’m sorry. Still—” 

“Nico, from the time I was seven, I ’ve lived only 
for this day,” Virginia said impulsively. 

“Since you were seven ? What the—for the love of 
Mike, Jinny, explain yourself.” 

“But I have explained myself—over and over again. 
It was I who injured you, Nico. Why, I might have 
killed you, and I thought for years that I had. I used 
to pray and say I’d make any sacrifice— any, it did n’t 
matter what, how great it might be—if only I could see 
you alive and completely well.” 

He stared at her thoughtfully. Had God accepted 
her sacrifices and answered her prayers ? She had lost 
lover and parents, she endured an existence of extreme 
poverty, she slaved unceasingly from early morning 


OBLIGATIONS 219 

until late at niglit, but the miracle had happened. He, 
who had long given up hope of being anything but a 
cripple until the end of his days, could walk. He got 
up and nervously tested it again, moving slowly but 
firmly about the kitchen. 

“I wish you would n’t do that,” Virginia said. 
'‘You ’re tiring yourself out, Nico. Perhaps we’d 
better go to bed.” ' 

“I’m not so very tired. . . . Jinny, I wish you 
had n’t sacrificed things.” 

She rested her sewing in her lap. 

“What have I sacrificed?” she asked. Then, meet¬ 
ing his steady gaze, a slow color swept up her face. 
“Please don’t think I’m unhappy, Nico. I don’t mind 
being poor, although of course when you ’re famous—” 

“That’s just it. I ’ll never be famous.” 

“Your picture—” 

“To-morrow I must go to Versailles and see if 
they ’ll take me back.” 

“Not to-morrow, Nico. I forbid it.” She spoke in 
a rarely sharp tone. “I don’t care how well you seem 
or say you feel, after all these weeks in bed, you are 
not going back to that drafty palace. Not until you’ve 
had more time. I shall be earning sixty francs a 
week with Chiostro, and with Marietta’s rent-money 
we can live on that. For a while, anyway. I want 
you to finish your picture. I want it more than any¬ 
thing else in the world now.” 


220 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘‘So do I/' Nicholas muttered. “No—there’s some¬ 
thing else I want more than that.’^ 

“What?’^ 

“Can’t you guess ?” 

He was standing beside her, and she rose a little ap¬ 
prehensively, facing him. He took hold of her shoul¬ 
ders, a new Nicholas, indeed, with more than careless 
desire in his eyes, more than mere glory of possession. 
He must lift that veil from her soul and discover the 
real woman he had married. 

“I want your love,” he said quietly. “It is n’t 
enough for me that you ’re my wife. My God, Jinny, 
with a woman like you, it would n’t be enough for any 
man who knew what he was missing. Some men 
might n’t know, ever. Why, for a long time, I did n’t. 
I thought you’d taken one of those wild fancies that 
women sometimes do when they make a mad marriage. 
I’m going to be truthful with you, and perhaps it ’ll 
sound brutal. Other women have been in love with 
me, or pretended to be. You know what I was when 
you found me—bad-tempered, egotistical, poor as a 
rat, and full of myself. And I’m still that—with one 
saving grace. I’ve found the one woman in all the 
world, Jinny, You’ve almost made a human being 
out of me.” 

He smiled because she looked so frightened, but in 
his heart he was frightened himself. Suppose he 
could n’t discover her. Could he bear it ? 

“I want your love,” he repeated stubbornly. 


OBLIGATIONS 


221 


‘‘But, Nico—” 

“Well?” 

“I don’t know what to say. Aren’t we married? 
And there ’s Cherry—” 

“Confound it! You know I don’t mean that. Of 
course you ’re my wife. I don’t know that it’s a wife 
I want, at all.” 

“Oh, Nico!” 

“Well, I’d like to shock you. You hide yourself. 
Jinny—I—oh, I’d like to shake you.” He remem¬ 
bered that old mocking desire—^to shake her. 

She winced a little and tried to draw away. Yes, 
he’d seen that look in her eyes before; a look of sheer 
animal fright. He put his arms closely around her, so 
that he shouldn’t see, straining her to him, draw¬ 
ing her head to his shoulder and bending down to kiss 
her. Not the old kiss of careless desire, but sweetly 
warm with a hunger of passionate longing. 

“My Jinny, my girl . . . one day you ’ll wake up 
and know it; one day you ’ll know that you always be¬ 
longed to me.” 

She hung a little limp in his arms, and a tremor of 
self-distrust passed over her. He felt the quiver of 
her slender body and released her, going to sit mood¬ 
ily on the couch, feeling ashamed and bitter under 
defeat. 

Virginia smoothed her hair, but when she picked up 
her sewing again her hands were trembling so that she 
could scarcely hold the needle. Her breath came and 


222 


OBLIGATIONS 


went quickly in soft little gasps, and to the inner 
radiance of her face it was as though a pale pink lamp 
had been lighted. Perhaps she was not so frightened 
as she had seemed to be. 

She said: “You were talking so absurdly, Nico. 
Of course I belong to you, and I know it, now.’^ Her 
voice shook to match her hands, and she kept her gaze 
fixed on the sock she was trying to darn. “I expect 
you We a little excited to-night.” 

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” he replied indifferently. 
“Put it down to whatever you please.” 

There was a long silence. Virginia went on trying 
to conquer her hands, but the stitches were most er¬ 
ratic. 

It was nearly midnight when Nicholas got up, lit 
a candle, and went into the bedroom. 

She sat quiet then, listening while he moved about. 
Yes, he was going to bed. She heard his boots fall. 
Always he let them drop, and always she reminded him 
that he’d wake the baby. But to-night she did n’t 
call out reproachfully. Generally he came to the door 
and complained that she must n’t work so late; that it 
was time for her to come to bed, too. But to-night 
he did n’t do that. She heard him blow out the candle, 
then the slow protesting creak of the bed-springs. 

Quite softly she got up and put a few coals on the 
fire. It was sheer waste, sitting here like this—waste 
of coal and her own energy—yet she hadn’t really 
been alone all day, and it was necessary sometimes to 


OBLIGATIONS 


223 

be alone. Even in church there had been Madame 
Dessau in particular, and crowds of other people. 

She thought of her shadowed childhood, and won¬ 
dered if other people remembered details of their own 
lives so well when they were grown up as she remem¬ 
bered. Or was it only because the accident to Nicholas 
had made such a terrific impression upon her? She 
thought of her old adoration of him, the big black¬ 
haired boy, a romantic figure from the sordid Ditch, 
who did everything so much better than any of the 
others. Nicholas was first in everything, an amiably 
arrogant chieftain whose word was law,, and prowess 
unrivaled. And she had adored him. To-night he 
had compelled her to think of him all over again, to 
consider him in a way she had never expected to do. 
In fact, he was essentially the same Nicholas Wayne 
who had been King of the Meadow so long ago, so far 
away. 

What was the meadow like now? Probably built 
over, and the old cherry-tree gone these many years. 
It would be utterly changed, yet for Virginia the scene 
was imperishable. It remained an actual, most definite 
part of her life, the motif upon which her whole ex¬ 
istence was keyed. She wondered if other people saw 
their lives as a whole as completely as she realized her 
own. Yet details baffled her. There was Nevill. 
How, for instance, had he come into it and remained 
so persistently ? What was she going to do about him 
in her thoughts? As far as her actual life was con- 


224 


OBLIGATIONS 


cerned, she had managed to put him out of it, but in 
her thoughts he remained. 

“And Nico knows,” she whispered. “He guesses. 
Yet I Ve tried so hard to be a good wife to him. Poor 
Nico!” 

It really was time to go to bed, if she meant to go 
at all. She had to be up so early in the morning. 
She turned out the lamp and went into the bedroom, 
pausing a moment to lay an inquiring hand on the 
baby’s blankets. It was light in the room from the 
late-risen moon, and the wind had dropped. Nicho¬ 
las’s breathing came regularly. He must be asleep. 
Very softly Virginia undressed and crept in beside him. 


CHAPTER XXV 


I N the morning it was raining heavily, slashing 
savagely at the windows, wafting damp icy breaths 
through the cottage. The fire smoked, and the baby’s 
cold—no more than a snuffle yesterday—was worse. 
Any idea of Nicholas’s going to Versailles was entirely 
out of the question. He himself admitted it. Nor 
was he very well. The excitement over, he found that 
he was limping a little this morning, but he set his 
teeth and determined to beat it down. What had been 
done could be done again. Marietta brought his sticks 
in from the gutter where he had flung them, and he 
glowered at her. 

“You think I’m going to need them again,” he said. 
“I think you need them now,” Marietta replied. “It 
is madness, going without them. You might fall and 
hurt yourself.” 

At that moment, Dr. Dessau came in to have a look 
at the baby and his other patient. Nicholas, he 
thought, probably had a light touch of rheumatism. 
“Don’t move about much to-day,” he admonished. 
“But it is too cold in here, both for you and the little 
one. Build up the fire.” 

“There is no more fuel,” said Marietta, who was 
sitting close to the stove with the baby in her arms. 
225 


226 OBLIGATIONS 

you will give me some money, Mrs. Wayne, I ^11 
order some.” 

Virginia flushed uncomfortably. She had only four 
francs in her purse, no more than enough to get her to 
Paris and back. 

“Tell La Marche to send a sack of briquettes, and 
I ’ll pay him to-night,” she said. It was settled for her 
now that she must go to Chiostro’s, whether or no. He 
would give her the money for her day’s work, but she 
would have to start soon. The morning light was 
necessary for him. 

“I’m sorry,” Marietta replied, “but La Marche won’t 
give any more credit. He said so last time. And I 
am very short of money myself. People won’t pay 
promptly at Christmas. Otherwise—” 

Dr. Dessau bending over the baby, thrust his hand 
into his pocket and brought out a crumpled bank-note. 
Abstractedly he gave it to Virginia. “There, madame. 
Never mind. You can pay me back when it’s conven¬ 
ient. It is necessary to have the fuel, and I will send 
Collins to the chemist’s. The little one’s cold is on her 
chest. She must be kept very warm.” 

Virginia took her baby from Marietta and held it 
close to her breast. Over the little head she looked 
appealingly at the doctor. 

“You don’t think it’s serious, do you?” she asked 
with quivering lips. 

“It might be,” said Dr. Dessau. “You can never 
tell, with little ones.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


227 


‘‘But I have to go to Paris—” 

‘T ’ll be here,” Marietta interrupted. “I guess you 
can trust her with me, can’t you?” 

“Of course I can. Only—” 

“I ’ll do whatever the doctor tells me to,” Marietta 
said earnestly. She held out her arms again, jealous, 
yearning. She would have let Virginia walk over her 
for the baby’s sake. 

It was all an indescribable confusion. Nicholas, 
fretting miserably because Virginia had to go out, yet 
trying to assure her that ever)i:hing would be all right 
without her; Lonny coming in with his muddy boots 
and being scolded by Marietta; Marietta herself, 
strangely untidy in the early morning, rushing about 
thumping at the discouraged fire, setting the coffee to 
warm; the quiet little baby, lying still and waxen- 
looking in her soap-box bed, drawn as close to the stove 
as they could get it; Virginia, pinning on her hat, fetch¬ 
ing her coat, sending Lonny to borrow an umbrella of 
Madame Dessau, then between times hovering over her 
sick child. 

“I can’t go! What am I to do? Yet we must have 
money,” her distressed thoughts ran. Aloud she said: 
“Nico, if anything happens—if she gets worse— 
you ’ll ask Dr. Dessau to telephone at once, won’t 
you? Here’s Chiostro’s number. I’ve written it 
down. I’ll put it on the mantel-shelf. You won’t 
forget?” 

Nicholas promised. He looked at her with haggard 


228 OBLIGATIONS 

eyes. “My God, Jinny, what a useless article of furni¬ 
ture I am!” 

She kissed him swiftly, compassionately. For the 
moment they were alone together, bending over the 
baby. Virginia dropped to her knees by the dingy 
old soap-box and, raising one of the little hands, 
pressed it to her lips. “My darling—my own precious! 
It’s just a cold—a nasty, horrid cold on your poor little 
chest. You ’re going to get well again. Oh, my 
poor little lamb!” 

Marietta came in. “I’ve sent dad for the bri¬ 
quettes,” she announced, “and you ’ll have to run if 
you ’re going to catch that train.” 

For an agonized moment Virginia hesitated, but their 
cruel need overcame her other fears. Already they 
owed the doctor and Marietta far too much, and there 
was positively nothing left to pawn but her wedding- 
ring. She would raise a few francs on that on her way 
home. After all, it was n’t as though she were leaving 
the baby without anybody. Marietta could be de¬ 
pended upon absolutely; the doctor lived only next 
door; and there was Nico. Marietta thrust the bor¬ 
rowed umbrella into her hands and gave her the cotton 
gloves. It almost seemed as though she would be glad 
to get Virginia out of the house. 

“Nico, you won’t forget to telephone if—” 

“He won’t forget,” Marietta said sharply. “And 
you certainly will miss that train if you don’t run.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


229 


Virginia caught the train with no more than a second 
to spare. She had run all the way, not putting up the 
umbrella because it would have hindered her, and was 
dragged breathless by a workman into a steaming and 
crowded third-class compartment that reeked of strong 
tobacco and damp clothing. There was no room for 
her to sit down, and no one offered her a seat. The 
men were busy with their newspapers; and, as one of 
them remarked sotto voce to his neighbor, they were 
just as much entitled to their places as anybody else, 
particularly since there were plenty of half-filled car¬ 
riages forward. So Virginia stood all the way to 
Paris, braced against a rattling door. She had had 
time for not so much as a cup of the lukewarm coffee 
Marietta prepared, and the smoke of the Maryland cig¬ 
arettes bit into her throat and choked her and filled 
her with an increasing sense of faintness. But she had 
so much to think about that her own physical discom¬ 
fort seemed of small account. She ought to have 
caught an earlier train. Chiostro would be raging, and 
it would be so thankless to begin on him with a tale 
of woe. Like Dr. Dessau and Marietta, he had done 
so much already. He had offered her this work out of 
charity, of course, and here she was—like most objects 
of beneficence—not playing the game even at the start. 
Well, she would n’t tell Chiostro that the baby was ill 
until afterward. If she did he would probably feel 
constrained to give her money and send her home 


230 


OBLIGATIONS 


again, and her pride would n’t allow that. No, they 
must live honestly, if they were to live at all. She 
sighed deeply and lurched with the train. If they 
were to live at all . . . perhaps it was n’t meant that 
they were to live. Her strong sense of fatalism ac¬ 
cepted the possibility of this premise. Yet she had only 
to hold out her hand, and Nevill would give her all the 
money they needed. Indeed, they already owed some¬ 
thing to Nevill, but as soon as she had found out about 
that she’d refused any more. Perhaps she had done 
wrong to refuse it. Nico need n’t ever have known. It 
could have been paid back in time. Bad luck can’t 
last forever, and Fedor Chiostro said that Nico was a 
genius. Chiostro ought to know. 

Her unhappy thoughts raced on, but they were al¬ 
ways turning back again to the little sick baby. Cherry 
had been so still, so waxy-looking and dull. She had 
coughed and choked over her milk and taken no more 
than a few spoonfuls. Even Dr. Dessau had seemed 
troubled. Could it be more serious than a cold on the 
chest? Perhaps by now something worse had de¬ 
veloped. 

The train steamed into the Gare St.-Lazare and 
emptied itself. Virginia, stumbling, confused, hur¬ 
ried along with the crowd and found her bus more by 
luck than active perception. The bus, too, was 
crowded, but this time one of her own countrymen, a 
solemn-faced young man with a penetrating stare 
through horn-rimmed spectacles, gave her his seat, 


OBLIGATIONS 


231 


and she sank into it gratefully with a husky word of 
thanks. Her shoulders were bleakly cold from being 
rained on, but her hands and face burned. 

After nine o’clock. 

Well, Chiostro couldn’t have begun much sooner, 
because of the weather. She reached the studio drip¬ 
ping and sodden and found him, as she expected, wait¬ 
ing for her. He was very cross, but Virginia noticed 
enviously that there was evidence that he had break¬ 
fasted well. She kept her eyes as much as possible 
from the little tray on a table near the fire; coffee and 
crisp-looking rolls still remained, a slice of cold ham 
and a pot of cherry jam. In a few moments, Madame 
Chiostro stole in and stealthily removed the tray, re¬ 
moving also a great temptation. Virginia had been 
distinctly aware of greed. 

“Oh, Madame Chiostro,’’ she called out from the 
model’s throne, “thank you so much for all the nice 
things you sent us.” 

Chiostro’s wife halted, smiled vaguely, and nodded, 
the laden tray dwarfing her slight proportions. Then 
she went on out. 

There had been no interchange of personal news be¬ 
tween Virginia and the painter. This was Chiostro’s 
work-time. Nevill Davies would have been utterly 
amazed to know that he—that anybody—could remain 
so utterly unaware of Virginia’s presence, except in a 
professional capacity. 

He was engaged just now on a rather big undertak- 


232 OBLIGATIONS 

ing, a series of mural decorations for the new public 
library of an enterprising city in one of the Middle 
Western States of America. The figures were Her¬ 
culean, a dozen or more, and Virginia was sitting for 
the model of Tranquillity. The pose was easy, a 
seated, heavily draped figure with the hands loosely 
clasped in the lap, eyes meditative, expression one of 
peace. Chiostro had explained this as he arranged the 
folds of the draperies and made chalk-marks for her 
feet. 

Tranquillity! 

And she was starving, cold, and worried to death. 
Even the thought of the twenty francs that would be 
hers when the sitting was over brought no great sense 
of peace. It would be barely enough to cover the actual 
necessities for the next two days. And there was that 
ten francs so kindly lent by Dr. Dessau. How long 
would the sack of briquettes last? Would the chemist 
give them any further credit? They owed him so 
much already! What would they have done without 
Dr. Dessau? 

Her gaze wandered irresistibly to the telephone, and 
Chiostro reminded her sharply not to change the pose. 
He was dissatisfied with her expression, she felt sure, 
muttering to himself as he limned in the outlines with 
charcoal, rubbing out again, fuming bitterly under 
his breath. 

She tried very hard to be Tranquillity, to remember 
why she was here, to fix her mind on all the wonderful 


OBLIGATIONS 


233 

things that twenty francs would buy if only it were a 
thousand. 

The morning dragged on. It seemed hours before 
Chiostro paused and inquired perfunctorily if she were 
tired and would like to rest. By that time she had 
frozen stiff in the pose. She could scarcely relax 
sufficiently to shake her head and murmur that, no, 
she was all right. 

“Good!” he grumbled. “I want to get on. It’s 
better now, but soon the light will go. You are holding 
the pose very nicely.” 

Her eyes brimmed with grateful tears, but she kept 
them back. When it was all over, she ^d tell Chi¬ 
ostro about her father and mother being dead and the 
poor little baby being so ill. But there was good news, 
too; wonderful news about Nico. Would Chiostro 
scoff at the idea of its being a miracle ? 

And then the telephone rang. 

Virginia gasped and held her hands to her heart, as 
Chiostro, muttering furiously, went to answer it. She 
leaned forward, her cold, stiff lips parted, her eyes 
wide with terror. 

“Hello! . . . Yes, it is. What? What? I can’t 
hear you. Oh, confound it all. Wait a minute.” He 
laid the receiver on the table and bawled out: “Mama, 
come attend to this. Why should I be interrupted by 
such people? Mama!” 

Madame Chiostro came running. 

Virginia, with a deep, shuddering sigh, fell back into 


OBLIGATIONS 


234 

the pose of Tranquillity. It was only the butcher who 
had rung up to say that he had no more sweetbreads 
but was sending brains for their dinner, and if that 
were not satisfactory ... but apparently Madame 
Chiostro was contented with the alternative. Brains 
were all right, and the sweetbreads would come 
to-morrow. 

Chiostro was one of those people who dine but do 
not lunch. It was nearly three o’clock before he laid 
aside the tools of his profession. Even then Virginia 
was not sure whether he had finished or not. He said 
nothing to her. He was in a bad-tempered, absorbed 
mood; in fact, a natural condition to him during work- 
times. During the early experience of having her 
portrait painted, he had often been quite savage, so 
much so that poor Edith O’Dare would have given 
much for enough courage to cancel the commission. 

On this occasion he glared blankly around the studio 
for a moment—did he realize that the gray-sheeted 
woman on the model’s throne was still there?—^then 
seized his big black felt hat and rushed out, banging 
the door behind him. 

Virginia moved her limbs in a gingerly fashion. 
She felt as stiff and crippled as ever poor Nico had 
been. What was she to do now? Wait for Chiostro 
to come back? 

It was still raining and getting dark rapidly. The 
fire, such as it had been, was now completely out, and 


OBLIGATIONS 235 

the intense cold of the room seemed to have frozen her 
very heart. 

It must be that the sitting was over. 

And then little Madame Chiostro slithered in with 
her absurdly tentative manner. 

“Oh, papa has finished for to-day,*^ she said. “You 
are to come again on Wednesday. That is all right, 
is n’t it ? How cold it is! I hate Paris. The climate 
is dreadful in the winter. I wish we were going to 
the Riviera.*’ 

It was a very long speech for Madame Chiostro. 

Virginia clambered down awkwardly from the 
model’s throne and gathered up her heavy draperies. 

“Could I see Mr. Chiostro a minute before I go?” 
she asked. 

“Papa’s gone out for a breath of air, he said. But 
he ’ll finish up at the club, I expect. Was it anything 
particular ?” 

“Only—” Virginia colored faintly. “Well, I was 
going to ask him for my money.” 

“What a pity!” exclaimed Madame Chiostro. “How 
much is it?” 

“Twenty francs.” 

“Dear me! And I’ve only got a hundred-franc 
note in the house. Could you give me change?” 

Virginia shook her head. 

“That’s a pity.” Madame Chiostro sighed. “But 
he ’ll give it to you on Wednesday. I ’ll remind him, 


OBLIGATIONS 


236 

without fail. Papa forgets everything when he’s start¬ 
ing a new picture. You’d never believe what a trial 
he is ... ” 

She followed Virginia to the door of the dressing- 
room, but, meeting with no encouragement, sighed 
again and drifted out. 

Virginia had not answered through sheer inability 
to speak. There was a horrible lump in her throat, 
and she ached all over, but hunger was past now. 
Thank heaven, the craving for food no longer tor¬ 
mented her. She dressed as quickly as her numbed 
senses permitted. Her clothes, of course, were still 
wet. Why hadn’t she thought to ask Madame Chi- 
ostro to hang her coat in the kitchen? It was such a 
long, long way to the Gare St.-Lazare, and the buses 
were not at all frequent. But first, she must pawn her 
wedding-ring. How much would they give ? It was a 
very slender band, for all it seemed to hang so heavily 
on her finger. She would walk down to the river and 
look for a pawnshop among the clutter of narrow 
streets by the Pont St.-Michel. 

But in that she was more fortunate. She found one 
almost at once in the boulevard. It was so nice and 
warm in the shop that she wished she could stay there, 
and in a state of semistupor she sank upon the wooden 
stool before the counter and handed over her ring to 
the clever-looking young Jew who was in charge. Her 
great and obvious need may have moved him, for to 


OBLIGATIONS 237 

her surprise he offered to lend ten francs on the ring, 
and the most she had hoped for was five. 

‘‘The weather is very bad, madame,” he said, as he 
gave her the money and the ticket. 

Virginia agreed with him about the weather and 
prepared for departure. 

But as she opened the door, which had a tremendous 
clanging bell, she collided with a man just on the point 
of entering, and both of them stared wildly at each 
other. 

“Yes, it’s me,’^ said Nevill. “I Ve been following 
you ever since you left Chiostro’s.” 

His face was pinched and blue, and he looked almost 
as frozen as Virginia. His voice sounded so harsh 
that for a moment the young Jew behind the counter 
thought he must be a detective who had succeeded in 
tracking down his miserable quarry. 

“Oh, Nevill!” she cried, beginning to shiver, her 
self-control almost escaping from her. 

“I’ve been waiting for hours . . . that brute, Chi- 
ostro! I saw him go out a while ago. Has he been 
working you all this time ? Have you had an3^hing to 
eat? You look famished.” 

A mist swam before Virginia’s eyes. She shook 
her head and staggered heavily against him. “But 
I *m not hungry,” she said, “and I must get home— 
quick. My poor little baby is ill. Oh, Nevill, I must 
get home as quick as ever I can 1 ” 


238 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘‘Yes— yes,” he soothed her. 

They were out of the shop now, and he hailed a cab. 

“To the Gare St.-Lazare,^' he said, as he half lifted 
her into it. 

The taxi was ancient and crept like a broken, wheez¬ 
ing old horse. The rain had blurred the windows, and 
they were shut in together away from the pitiless outer 
world in a jolting, musty little world of their own. 
Nevill put his arm around her drenched shoulders and 
supported her against him. It seemed the most natural 
thing to do. She scarcely seemed aware of his near¬ 
ness, yet he was comforted to hold her thus. 

“Tell me, Virginia. You say the baby is ill?’^ 

“Yes—and I’m so afraid she’s worse. But Nico 
promised to have the doctor telephone if anything hap¬ 
pened. Nobody telephoned except the butcher . . . 
it was about sweetbreads. I was late and Chiostro was 
so cross. 

“The brute!” Nevill exclaimed. 

“Oh, no, Nevill! You don’t understand artists.” 

“Thank God for that! But you should n’t have 
come at all on a day like this. How your husband 
could have allowed you!” 

“You need n’t blame Nico. I had to come. You 
see we—^we ’re rather poor just now—” 

“And you would n’t take any help from me! That’s 
what I feel the most. Virginia, you don’t want to kill 
me, do you ?” 

She began to sob. How cruel the world was 1 Yes, 


OBLIGATIONS 239 

it was intolerably cruel. Chiostro might have remem¬ 
bered that she would need that twenty francs. 

‘‘Don’t cry, my poor love. Yes, you are my love; 
you always will be. At least you can’t stop that. No¬ 
body—not even Nicholas Wayne—can take away my 
right to love you. Virginia, try to be sensible. Don’t 
be an utter fool. There’s sure to be some money com¬ 
ing from your father’s estate—oh, poor, poor child!” 
He bent swiftly and kissed her wet face. “Don’t cry, 
dear. Let me lend you a little. You can pay it back. 
I have so much more than I can possibly use. Nobody 
needs my money now. I, least of all.” 

“Please don’t reproach me.” 

“No, I won’t—if you ’ll let me help you. As I say, 
you can pay it back. Look here, my dear child—” 
He brought out his note-cases. “Now take five hun¬ 
dred francs. Let me have a night’s sleep for once. I 
tell you I can’t bear it much longer. I don’t sleep at 
all through worrying about you. You can pay me 
hack . . .” 

Yes, she could do that—possibly. 

The sight of the notes filled her with as fierce a 
longing as had Chiostro’s abandoned breakfast-tray. 
Greed, she thought, sheer greed. 

“A hundred would do,” she heard herself saying in 
a husky, difficult voice. 

“No, take it all.” He crushed the notes into her 
hands. “You ’ll need it. If you must tell Wayne 
anything, tell him that Chiostro gave it to you.” 


240 


OBLIGATIONS 


“Nico won’t bother very much. He does n’t under¬ 
stand the value of money,” she whispered, as much to 
herself as to Nevill. 

‘‘Probably not,” Nevill said. “Well, that’s a good 
thing. Oh, my dear, what a relief!” 

“You ’re so kind, Nevill, that—that it hurts. I can’t 
thank you—” 

“You’d better not try.” 

“But I’m eternally grateful. I really was in a dread¬ 
ful fix. Chiostro forgot to pay me—” 

“What were you pawning?” Nevill interrupted. 

“Nothing very much.” 

“Tell me.” 

She drew off her left glove and showed him her 
hand. 

Their vehicle rumbled reluctantly up to the station 
entrance, and they found that Virginia had just missed 
a train for St.-Cloud. There would not be another for 
forty minutes. 

Nevill bought tickets for two, first-class, and then he 
piloted her to the steaming hot buffet. 

“Time for a cup of chocolate,” he said. “We ’re 
both of us so cold. I’m going to see you safely home. 
You need n’t say a word. I can’t do you any harm, 
can I ?” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


A fterward Virginia doubted whether she 
would ever have got home except for Nevill. 
She did n’t realize until she was sipping the delicious hot 
chocolate and eating well-buttered rolls just how utterly 
spent and famished she was. There was no sense in 
fretting over the delay. If it had n’t been for Nevill, 
she would n’t be at the station even now, and, however 
much one wished, the time-table could not be altered. 

But finally they got on to the train; finally it ambled 
out, a troublesome little local stopping at every station; 
finally it reached St.-Cloud, and Nevill took farewell 
of her, putting her into a cab at the station. 

“If you want me for anything ” he said, “I ’ll be at 
the Regina. Don’t forget.” 

She smiled courageously at him. “I won’t forget— 
nor how kind you’ve been. Good-by, and thank you, 
Nevill.” 

“Good-by,” he echoed drearily. 

When she looked back, he was still standing there in 
the rain with his hat in his hand, staring after the cab. 
She leaned out and waved to him. Almost, she felt 
happy. It really was n’t wrong to take that money 
from Nevill. It had given him pleasure and her a re- 
241 


242 


OBLIGATIONS 


lief of mind not easily to be measured. Of course she 
could pay him back. She was n’t so cold now, either. 
The chocolate had warmed her, and the heat of the 
buffet and railway-carriage had dried her damp clothes. 
The rain looked like lifting. A wind had sprung up, 
and the clouds were scattering. It was a little milder, 
she thought, and the baby could n’t be worse or Nico 
would have telephoned. 

Yet at the sight of the blank front of the cottage, the 
wind-blown vine, the decaying garden, her heart failed 
her. The place had an arrested air of deep secrecy. 

She expected to see Marietta or Nicholas at a win¬ 
dow when the cab drove up, but the windows were ex¬ 
pressionless. The driver had been paid, and so there 
was no further delay. 

Virginia hurried in. The door yielded at her touch, 
and for a moment she stood there staring in a wonder¬ 
ing fashion. There was nobody in the kitchen, and 
the baby’s soap-box was not by the stove where Dr. 
Dessau had ordered it to be kept. The kitchen itself 
had an unnatural air of tidiness. It appeared to have 
been scrubbed recently; the plates were neatly arranged 
on the dresser; a checked cloth covered the table; the 
stove shone from polishing. Marietta’s handiwork, 
of course. But where was Marietta—the baby—Nico? 
Perhaps Cherry was so much better that Marietta had 
taken her up-stairs, and Nico might have gone out. 

Virginia hurried to the foot of the stairs, but before 
she could call out. Marietta came running down. Such 


OBLIGATIONS 


243 


a sight as she was—just finished her cleaning, but not 
yet cleaned herself—in a short red flannel petticoat and 
a draggled blouse with sleeves turned up to the elbows. 
But her eyes, her face—swollen so that her features 
were scarcely distinguishable as Marietta’s. At sight 
of Virginia she began to cry, racked with hoarse, 
unnatural sobs that sent shudders all over Virginia. 

“Oh, Mrs. Wayne—Mrs. Wayne!” she choked, 
pulling her apron up and covering her face with it. 

Virginia stood very still. She did not need to be 
told in so many words that her little baby, her little 
laughing, golden-haired Cherry was dead. 

“Where is she ?” she asked, when she could find her 
voice. 

Marietta pointed to the closed door of the bedroom. 

“Where is my husband?” 

“He had to go out—^to see about things,” said Mari¬ 
etta, in a thick, tear-ravaged voice. 

“When did . . . it happen?” Virginia asked. 

“This morning, early. Before you’d been gone 
no more than an hour.” 

“Why wasn’t I sent for?” Virginia’s voice was 
coldly savage. 

“Because it would n’t have been the least bit of good. 
Poor little mite I I had her in my arms, and she just 
coughed a couple of times and lay still. Why, there 
was n’t even time to send for the doctor. It was her 
poor little heart, he said. She had congestion of the 
lungs.” 


244 


OBLIGATIONS 


''Why wasn’t I sent for?” Virginia repeated, be- 
between set teeth. She wanted to shake Marietta. 

“Because—I told you—what would have been the 
use? It was better for you not to be here. You’d 
only have been in the way. There was so much to do. 
I ’ve washed and dressed her. She looks just like a 
little doll.” 

A great sob tore at Virginia’s throat, almost stran¬ 
gling her. She motioned to Marietta to go away, and 
stumbled blindly toward the bedroom, shutting and 
locking the door behind her. 

Her baby—^her little Cherry! 

Was it really true? 

Yes, it was true and as cold as death. The window 
was partially open, the room freezing. The soap-box 
stood on the two chairs where the icy breath blew across 
its still burden. Poor little baby, who should have been 
kept so warm I Just like a doll, as Marietta had said. 

There was a clean case of coarse hand-drawn 
linen on the pillow—Marietta’s—and a stiffly starched 
frock on the cold little doll; white socks above which 
gleamed the tender roundness of the waxen limbs; a 
frost-bitten white rose in the waxen hands; arcs of 
dull tarnished gold where the eyelashes lay against the 
waxen cheeks. 

Virginia knelt down and gathered a tiny fist to her 
lips. Her baby, so cold, so pitiful—all that she had 
left, it seemed—taken away from her. Why hadn’t 


OBLIGATIONS 


245 


the doctor told her this morning? He must have 
known. And Marietta said she was n’t sent for 
because she would have been in the way! Cherry had 
died in Marietta’s arms; Marietta had prepared the little 
body for burial; while she, the baby’s own mother, 
was sitting there in Chiostro’s studio, a figure of 
[Tranquillity. 

•Yet doubtless Marietta was right. Only Nico had 
promised, and he hadn’t kept his word. If she had 
stayed at home this morning it might not have hap¬ 
pened. She would n’t have let the baby die. Her love 
would have kept Cherry alive—^her agonized love and 
prayers. 

She was too deeply hurt for tears. Only those 
great dry strangling sobs kept tearing at her throat. 
Had God taken her baby because she did n’t love Nico ? 
But she did love him! She told herself wildly that it 
was all a misunderstanding where her Creator was con¬ 
cerned; He should have been able to see into her 
heart, that she truly did love Nico. Was n’t she Nico’s 
wife? Wasn’t that plain enough proof? Oh, come 
back, come back, little baby! . . . Another miracle. 
She prayed desperately for it: *^Give her back to me 
—give her back, dear God!” But the little doll lay 
cold and still; only the golden ringlets moved, stirred 
by the icy breath from the open window. There was 
no miracle. 

She must have knelt there a long time before she 


OBLIGATIONS 


246 

became aware o£ footsteps in the kitchen, whispering, 
and somebody trying the handle of the door. Could n t 
Marietta leave her alone ? 

^ 7 inny!” It was Nico’s voice. “Jinny dear, open 
the door.’" 

Oh, it was true, true! She did n’t love Nico; she 
hated him. God had been just on that score. She 
hated him and Marietta. They had let her baby die 
between them; they had n’t even so much as troubled to 
telephone, and Nico had promised. They had let her 
endure the doubt of that long day, only to come home 
and find her little baby dead. As though it did not 
matter what her feelings were! She did n’t count to 
anybody . . . except Nevill. She would have been in 
the way; another woman’s hands were more capable 
than hers. She had been shut out; well, let them be 
shut out for a while. 

‘‘Jinny—please answer, dear,” Nico calling again. 

“Go away and leave me alone,” she called back 
stridently. 

It did n’t sound like Virginia’s voice at all. 

Poor little flower, frosted like that white rosebud. 
“Oh, God, take me, too—^take me, tool” she pleaded. 
Her heart was broken. 

Nicholas came to the other door that led from the 
scullery. She had not thought to lock that. He found 
her sitting on the floor, her forehead resting against the 
rough edge of the soap-box, her hands clasping the 
baby’s, trying to make the icy clay warm again. 


OBLIGATIONS 247 

‘‘Leave me alone,” she gasped. “Oh, can’t you leave 
me?” 

He put his arms around her and dragged her to her 
feet. For a second she started to struggle, to fight him, 
then suddenly gave in. What was the use ? 

“You ’ll catch cold, honey,” he coaxed. “Come into 
the kitchen. It’s nice and warm in there.” 

“Send Marietta away,” she replied, as sullen as Mari¬ 
etta herself. “I don’t want to see her again, ever.” 

“She’s up-stairs,” Nicholas replied. “Come on, 
dear.” 

He set her down by the hot stove that smelled un¬ 
pleasantly strong from its recent polishing. 

And then he asked, anxiously and apologetically, 
“Did you get any money. Jinny ?” 

“That was what I went for,” she replied with tragic 
emphasis. “You ’ll find it in my bag.” 

She was glad he had spoken to her about the money. 
If he had said anything about the baby, she would have 
screamed. She sat perfectly indifferent while he rum¬ 
maged in her bag. There was an exclamation; then 
he said, “But there’s more than five hundred francs 
here.” 

“I know,” she replied. “I pawned my weddmg- 
ring.” 

“But they could n’t have given you so much.” 

Nicholas was not well versed in financial matters, 
but he did know something about a pawnbroker’s esti¬ 
mate of values. 


248 


OBLIGATIONS 


^They did n’t,” she replied briefly. 

‘We ought n’t to borrow so much of Chiostro.” 
His voice sounded heavy with worry. “Still—one of 
these days—” 

“We can pay it back,” she finished for him. 

“I hope you ’re keeping count of it all.” 

“Afraid I have n’t,” Virginia said. 

“Oh, well, I expect he has. I went over to Ver¬ 
sailles this morning, after—after it was over.” He 
drew up a chair beside her and sat down, taking one of 
her hands. 

“You promised to telephone me, and you did n’t,” 
Virginia said coldly. 

“But I did, honey. At least, I told Marietta to. At 
the same time, you could n’t have got here. The poor 
little thing went so quickly. It was all over in a couple 
of minutes. I thought you must have had the mes¬ 
sage, and that was why you borrowed so much of 
Chiostro.” 

“No, I had no message at all. I just came home and 
—and found it had happened. Marietta was up-stairs. 
This room looked so abominably clean and empty. I 
wondered ... I thought the baby must be a lot better 
and that Marietta had taken her up-stairs. But when 
I called and she came down—looking so hideous with 
her face all swollen—I knew at once. She did n’t need 
to tell me. If only I had n’t gone to Paris! It 
might n’t have happened.” 

“Honey, you could n’t help it, and you could n’t have 


OBLIGATIONS 


249 


done a thing. Don’t you start blaming yourself. 
Blame me, if you like. God knows, I’m not fit to be a 
husband, let alone a father. Poor little kid! Always 
so jolly and kicking about. I guess I feel pretty bad, 
too. Jinny.” 

She raised her head and looked at him, and then her 
heart melted. He was haggard, poor Nico; his eyes 
cruelly strained. 

'"How did you get to Versailles?” she asked. 

“Walked—a part of the way. Lonny lent me a few 
francs. He’s going to make the—^the coffin. There’s 
some old pine shelving in the garage. I ’ll paint it to¬ 
night. Marietta has some white silk to line it with, 
and she can lie all snug on her little pillow. Lonny 
and I will carry her to the churchyard.” 

Who ever was buried without benefit of undertaker? 
Yet it did n’t seem so friendless, when one thought it 
over. Whose hands more loving than Lonny Collins’s 
to fashion the little coffin? Not skilled, perhaps, yet 
certainly loving. 

“And there’s an old lead cistern in Dessau’s tool- 
shed.” Nicholas went on. “It has a water-tight lid. 
Dessau says we can have it and welcome—-as a case for 
the coffin. I thought I’d better tell you. You don’t 
mind, do you?” 

“No,” Virginia shook her head. 

How cheaply one could be buried, if only one were 
small and poor enough! 

However, said Nicholas, they would have to pay the 


250 OBLIGATIONS 

grave-digger, who wouldn't allow any interference 
with his job. 

‘‘They 'll take me back at Versailles," Nicholas said 
bitterly. “Oh, they think no end of me. But I'm 
glad of that. Do you mind if the funeral is 
to-morrow ?" 

“To-morrow? So soon! ... It seems so cruel, 
so heartless—no, no, I can't part with her 1 " 

“Honey!" 

“Very well, Nico. Whatever you say. Yes, it 
had better be to-morrow. Then I can go to Chiostro's 
again on Wednesday. As though nothing had hap¬ 
pened at all!" She laughed so wildly that Nicholas put 
a hand over her mouth. 

“Don't, Jinny—don't!" 

She freed herself. “I'm all right. I'm sorry. But 
I don't seem to understand anything properly. Yester¬ 
day was Christmas, was n't it ? Mrs. Shaw was here. 
She told me about father and mother. That was only 
yesterday, was n't it ? . . . And you found you could 
walk without your sticks. You threw them away. I 
went to vespers with Madame Dessau. We were hav¬ 
ing a glass of wine when you came in. Was it only 
this morning—this very morning!—that the baby had 
a cold on her chest ? , . . And to-morrow they 'll put 
her away in the ground forever. Oh, Nico, my 
heart is torn, broken. I don’t understand why all this 
has happened to me. Is there a God? Yes, yes—I 
must n’t let myself doubt. If I did—oh, I'm mad, 


OBLIGATIONS 


251 


anyway! . . . No, Nico, it’s all right. Don’t pay any 
attention to me. My baby is dead. I have n’t got 
used to it yet. It did n’t seem as if a thing like that 
could happen to me. Anything else—but not that. 
She was so little, so sweet, so full of life—and now—” 

Nicholas lifted his wife into his lap and held her 
there close. His own eyes were wet. It was her loss, 
of course, but he would like her to know that for all 
of his mercenary talk about ways and means he had 
feelings in the matter. They might have other chil¬ 
dren, but the little waif of their poverty, the child of 
these dark days who had fled from them, would re¬ 
main forever different, niched royally in memory, set 
apart from and above any that might come after. 

And it was only yesterday, last night, he could have 
reminded her, capping her sorrowful tale, that he had 
tried to get into closer touch with her and failed. 
That, too, seemed to Nicholas a tragedy. He had n’t 
realized before how necessary it was to understand 
Jinny. She had just been a romantic fact in the last 
two years of his life—not differing greatly from other 
romantic facts he’d experienced, except that she was 
less stimulating and lacked the faculty of quarrelsome¬ 
ness which heretofore he had associated with the femi¬ 
nine temperament. 

Lonny Collins tiptoed apologetically into the room, 
his cap removed, a tape-measure in his hand. With 
^Virginia in his lap, Nicholas nodded silently to Lonny 
over her head. 


252 


OBLIGATIONS 


Lonny, not drunk at all on this occasion, went softly 
into the cold bedroom, walking preposterously on his 
toes. Never had he looked so shrunken, so bowed of 
leg and shriveled of face. Presently he came out 
again with his tape-measure and a scrap of paper on 
which he had jotted down figures, and a little later they 
could hear him hammering and sawing in the studio- 
garage. 

‘T think I ^d better go out now,” Nicholas said. 
'‘Lonny not much of a hand at carpentering, and if 
the paint’s to be dry by to-morrow morning it has to 
be done now. Shall I call Marietta?” 

“No—I don’t want her,” Virginia replied. She 
slipped off his knees, waiting for him to go. 

“I hate leaving you, honey, but you ’d better not come 
out with us. For one thing, you ’d freeze.” 

“No, I don’t want to come.” 

“Well, then—” 

“Yes, go, Nico. It would be dreadful if the paint 
was n’t dry. As though we—^we could n’t wait to get 
her underground.” 

“We can’t wait,” Nicholas said grimly. “And 
that’s a fact.” 

When he had gone she turned again toward the bed¬ 
room, then hesitated and came back. For the first 
time in many weeks she climbed the stairs to the Collins 
rooms. 

'The door of their little kitchen was open, and she saw 


OBLIGATIONS 


253 


Marietta sitting there in the circle of lamplight. Mari¬ 
etta had been working on white satin, tucking it into 
folds as neat as the lining of an expensive bowler; very 
like, in fact. But the work lay on the table, and so 
did Marietta’s head, clasped in her arms. She was 
superbly neat now, clad in her best black, her hair shin¬ 
ing with pomade. 

“Marietta, I’m sorry I was so cross,” Virginia said. 
“Please forgive me. It was true enough; I could have 
done nothing. And you have done so much. Come 
down and sit with me, we ’ll look at her again, together, 
and then we ’ll talk about her and her cunning little 
ways. Bring your sewing. It must be done in time. 
They—they ’re making the little coffin. So much nicer 
for Lonny and Nico to make it. Just think! Only 
our hands will have touched her—just us, who loved 
her so much. It’s good to think that. Marietta, is n’t 
it? And she won’t miss us very much. They ’ll look 
after her . . . up there. So safe. Marietta! Think 
what a lot she’s being spared. Why, we don’t know 
what might n’t have happened to her! But God knew 
_and He’s going to take care of her.” 

How strange that Virginia should be comforting 
Marietta! The red-haired girl convulsively clasped 
one of her hands and kissed it with an abandon of 
passionate devotion. Her terribly swollen face no 
longer seemed ludicrous or repulsive. 

“Oh, Mrs. Wayne, I can’t bear it! She died in my 


OBLIGATIONS 


254 

arms—just coughed a little, and then lay so still I 
thought she had gone to sleep. I can’t bear it!” 

“We Ve got to bear it,” Virginia said quietly. 
“There’s nothing else to do.” 

“No—there is n’t. But I have n’t anybody who 
cares for me. She was beginning to. She was ever 
so fond of me, Mrs. Wayne.” 

“I know she was.” 

“Mr. Wayne told me to send for you—but I thought, 
what’s the use ? Everything was so upside down— 
so much to be done. I thought I must get it all cleaned 
up and tidy before you came home. Then it would n’t 
seem quite so dreadful to you. It wants to be clean 
and quiet when there’s a death. And how could I 
telephone to you that she was gone? You had to come 
home. You might n’t have been able to, if you’d 
known. . . . Yes, let’s go down.” She gathered up 
her sewing in trembling haste, her grotesquely swollen 
face quivering like a pink jelly. “I never meant no 
harm to you, Mrs. Wayne,” she added enigmatically. 
“I guess I did n’t always understand you, and perhaps 
I was jealous ... of the baby.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


N icholas and Lonny had finished their sad task 
by eight o’clock, and then Marietta with a lan¬ 
tern went out to the studio to fit the pleated satin lining 
into the little white box. Nicholas was exhausted. 
Lonny and he sat on opposite sides of the stove, the 
wizened ex-jockey huddled on an old milking-stool, 
his blue eyes blinking ruefully in contemplation of his 
gaitered legs. He felt the need of liquor most dread¬ 
fully but somehow did not care to join his comrades 
at Gidot’s or the Cafe d’Or. Not to-night, anyway. 
Still, appetite was strong in him. 

‘^Seems sort of quiet,” he ventured, glancing toward 
the closed door of the bedroom. 

Nicholas nodded. Virginia had gone in there again 
to say good night to her baby. Nicholas was uneasy, 
but he did n’t call out to her. 

‘‘She ’ll make herself sick,” said Lonny. 

Nicholas moved restlessly. 

“Weather’s clearing,” piped Lonny, with a dry 
little cough. ‘‘Cold sort of gets me on the chest—-grips 
me just here. Tightens me up so’s I c’n scarcely 
breathe, somehow.” 

“I think,” said Nicholas, “that there’s a bottle of 
255 


256 OBLIGATIONS 

port in the cupboard. I’m not sure, but there was 
some last week.’^ 

Lonny brightened. *‘Port *s better ’n nothing. 
Shall I see?” 

The bottle was only a third full, but, as Lonny had 
said, port was better than nothing, even a little port, in 
a storm like this. 

‘‘Have some?” he asked. 

Nicholas shook his head, “No.” 

“What about her?” Lonny motioned with his head 
toward the bedroom. 

“You needn’t save any for her,” Nicholas said. 
“She would n’t touch it. I can’t get her to take a 
thing.” 

“That’s bad—bad,” sympathized Lonny. “She ’ll 
fall sick on our hands first thing we know.” 

However, he took Nicholas at his word and drank 
what there was in the bottle. It made him feel a little 
better and humidly inclined to tears. 

From outside came the regular tap, tap of Marietta’s 
hammer as she tacked in the lining of the little coffin. 
Nicholas hoped she was having a care for the wet 
paint, but he was too utterly spent to go to her 
assistance. 

What a cruel day it had been! He looked at the big 
canvas turned to the wall. Well—if he ever finished 
that picture! He saw it differently now, not Wife and 
Child of the Artist, but merely Mother and Child, and 
the Child was a little dead baby. . . . Ugh! Could n’t 


OBLIGATIONS 


257 


he get away from his ^'genius/' even at a time like this? 
He must be very heartless, indeed. A man without a 
soul. Yet—was he like that? 

“It’s a terrible long walk you had to-day,” said 
Lonny. “Legs feel groggy?” 

“A bit,” Nicholas admitted. “Oh, they Te all right.” 

“You want to take care o’ yerself,” Lonny admon¬ 
ished gravely. “A little port or gin, mebbe, would n’t 
do you any harm. Best always to keep somethink in 
the house. If you like, I ’ll run down to Gidot’s and 
fetch it. Mind you, it’s not of myself I’m thinking. 
There’s Marietta, now; the poor girl thought a heap of 
the little ’un. And your missus: it’s bad for her, on 
her knees in that cold room all this time. You never 
know what ’ll happen. Somebody might collapse sud¬ 
den like. Then where would we be?” 

Nicholas admitted the argument. He thrust his 
hand into his pocket and brought out one of the notes 
that were assumed to have come from Fedor Chiostro. 
“Here, get what you want. But don’t spend more than 
ten francs, mind you. Money does n’t grow on trees in 
this house.” After all, Lonny was entitled to some 
return for his sad labor of love. 

Only ten francs ? Oh, well, Lonny had some money 
of his own to put to it. He went out a little sheepishly. 
Mr. Wayne had seen through him, but what could one 
do in such circumstances? If ever a man stood in 
need of stimulant, it was on an occasion of this sort. 

Scarcely had he gone when some one rapped smartly 


258 OBLIGATIONS 

on the kitchen door. Nicholas rose to answer it and 
found a messenger from the post-office with an express 
letter for Virginia. The messenger refused to be satis¬ 
fied with his signature, and so he had to call her. She 
came wearily, like a woman in a dream, and put her 
name in the book where she was told. Then the 
messenger departed. 

“Who’s it from ?” asked Nicholas. 

“I don’t know,” she replied. The writing on the 
envelope was unfamiliar to them both. “Open it, 
Nico.” She sank down upon Lonny’s stool and rested 
her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. 

Nicholas opened the envelope, which contained a 
short letter and a twenty-franc note. He glanced 
hurriedly over what was written, a puzzled line between 
his brows. 

“It’s from Madame Chiostro,” he said. “She says 
. . . When my husband came home I told him you had 
asked for your money, and he was terribly upset to have 
forgotten that you would need it. He told me to send 
it to you at once by express, and I am doing so.’ . . . 
What’s that mean. Jinny?” 

Virginia looked up, dazed, remote. With difficulty 
she comprehended what Nicholas had read. 

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Chiostro went off without 
paying me, and Madame Chiostro didn’t have the 
change.” 

“Then where did you get that five hundred francs ?” 
Nicholas asked. 


OBLIGATIONS 


259 


There was a short silence. 

“Why don’t you answer me?” he demanded, his 
face deathly white. 

“I. . . Nevill lent it to me,” Virginia said, after 
another pause. 

“You took money from that man!” 

“There was nothing else to do.” 

“You ’ve been meeting him regularly. Marietta was 
right, after all. God, what a fool I am 1 ” 

“Nico!” 

She got up, her breast heaving, her eyes wide and 
startled. 

“Go on—explain it. Tell some more lies. I’m a 
fool. I ’ll believe anything. I ’ll swallow whole what¬ 
ever you choose to tell me—” 

“Nico! Hush! Oh, we mustn’t quarrel ... not 
now. It’s too dreadful.” She glanced in agony to¬ 
ward the door behind which her baby slept the eternal 
sleep. “Nico dear. I will explain—” 

“I thought you would. Well ?” He laughed bitterly. 

“Oh, my dear!” 

Tap, tap, came the sound of Marietta’s hammer, and 
Virginia shivered. 

“Nevill saw me go into the pawnshop,” she began, 
when he interrupted fiercely. 

“He just happened to be in the neighborhood, I sup¬ 
pose. Just as he happened to be at Gidot’s cafe yester¬ 
day afternoon, about the time you left for vespers.” 

“Yesterday?” Virginia looked blank. 


26 o 


OBLIGATIONS 


^'Yesterday'* Nicholas shouted. 

“Oh, hush—hush! Don’t speak so loud.” 

“No fear of waking her, if that’s what you mean. 
And perhaps it’s just as well.” 

“You are . . . brutal,” Virginia said quietly, the 
decision having come to her out of a considered 
judgment. 

“I’m brutal, am I ? While your child was ill— 
dead—you were meeting this man. Heaven knows 
how often you’ve done it. You ’ve had plenty of 
opportunities lately, while I’ve been laid up. The 
money we’ve been living on all these weeks—none of 
it came from Chiostro, I suppose. He joined with you 
to deceive me. Well, I’m done. My eyes ought to 
have been opened long ago, but, like every other man, 
I suppose I could n’t believe that my own wife would 
deceive me. Marietta was right. She knew, and she 
warned me. For two pins, I’d turn you out of this 
house to-night.” 

He plunged a hand into his pocket, tore out the re¬ 
mainder of the notes, and flung them at her. They 
drifted about the floor like soiled limp leaves. 

Virginia observed him attentively. She had often 
seen him in rages before, but never in one directed 
wholly against herself. 

“Damn you,” he shouted. “Why don’t you say 
something? What do you mean by looking at me like 
that? You ought to be glad that I—I’ve kept my 
hands off you.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


261 


“Do you want to kill me?” she asked, her eyes 
mystical and absorbed. “Because I don’t mind a bit, 
if you do. I have nothing whatever to live for now. 
I would just as soon be dead.” 

The tapping in the studio had ceased, and Marietta 
stood in the door with the lantern, tools, and the left¬ 
over bits of satin. She looked frightened. 

“What’s the matter ? Why, the floor’s all over 
money.” She set aside her things and began to pick 
up the scattered notes. “Are these yours, Mrs. 
Wayne ?” 

“Yes, please,” Virginia replied. She helped Mari¬ 
etta recover the notes. 

His hands in his pockets, Nicholas leaned against the 
mantel-shelf, his face marred by a cold sneer. Under 
his manner of contempt, however, he was by no means 
easy, and some of his contempt was for himself. He 
thought: “Jinny is quite sensible about that money. 
Suppose I had flung it into the fire? Yet I let her 
think I’d have nothing further to do with it. Even 
now I’m letting her grub around on the floor for it. 
Oh, I’m no end of a fine fellow! To-morrow I ’ll be 
asking her for some to pay the grave-digger. Yes— 
and, oh, there’ll be other things. ... I suppose I 
could turn her out of the house. She’d go, too. I 
don’t like the way she looked at me. Perhaps I 
should n’t have spoken as I did—not just now, 
anyway.” 

He was simmering down, and he hated himself for 


262 


OBLIGATIONS 


it; but he also hated himself for all the things he 
had said; some of them would take a lot of unsaying. 

Marietta was speaking in low, cowed tones to Vir¬ 
ginia; Marietta seemed suddenly to have gone over 
to Virginia’s side, and that was totally unexpected. 
She avoided Nicholas’s gaze completely. She was 
telling Virginia that she had made a bed up-stairs, 
and perhaps they’d better go up at once. Her dark 
eyes glowed somberly at the sight of her father 
emerging from the night with a fat newspaper parcel 
held tenderly in his arms. 

“ . . . And leave them to it,” she added significantly. 
‘‘Men are all alike.” 

Nicholas winced. This was grossly unfair of 
Marietta, turning on him like this, even lumping him 
in with her father, whom she despised. 

Virginia was quite willing to go up-stairs. Her 
sudden horror of Nicholas and of herself—^what she 
might be driven to say if he kept on at her—was more 
imperative just at that moment than her grief. 

She followed Marietta up to the Collins rooms and 
accepted Marietta’s bed all freshly made for her, on 
which her own night things had been laid out. 
Marietta herself was going to sleep on a mattress on 
the kitchen floor. And Nicholas, of course, would 
sleep on the couch down-stairs, as he had done through 
most of his illness. 

Virginia was made to sip a cup of hot milk. 
There was too much milk in the house to-day. 


OBLIGATIONS 


263 


“Now you ’ll sleep,” said Marietta. 

Virginia closed her eyes. It was warm in Marietta’s 
room; a flicker of fire gleamed from the kitchen ad¬ 
joining; the sheets were smooth and comfortable. 
But she could not sleep. She heard Marietta making 
ready for bed and finally tumble in with a distressed 
sigh. A low murmur of voices wafted up from down¬ 
stairs—Lonny Collins and Nicholas talking. 

How unhappy poor Nico must be! It was pretty 
ghastly for him, when all was said and done. Yet 
Nevill had meant so well. In the circumstances, one 
couldn’t have refused his generous help. No, the 
trouble had been—the wrong, if any—in not telling 
Nico where the money had come from, in letting him 
think it had come from Chiostro. And the fact re¬ 
mained that Nevill had been waiting to meet her. 
How was Nico to know that it had not happened be¬ 
fore, that it was not with her connivance? It was 
natural enough that he should be jealous of Nevill. 
Her obstinate habit of getting at the very heart of truth 
overcame her own hurt feelings. She was that rare 
thing, a feminine logician. She saw things so clearly. 
And now she saw that Nico had been right, though 
brutal. He had a very great sense of personal dig¬ 
nity, had Nico. He was just as much tormented by 
their helplessness as she was. Perhaps she had ap¬ 
peared too stolid in her acceptance of their fate, leav¬ 
ing Nico to rave alone, as he had done on various 
occasions. And the baby—oh, he had been proud of 


OBLIGATIONS 


264 

his little daughter! He felt things, too—Nico. Last 
night . . . that odd little thrill went over her as when 
he had folded her close in his arms and begged a 
revelation of herself. What had held her back? The 
thought of Nevill? No . . . not that. A queer, 
wondering doubt crept into her heart—could it be true 
that perhaps she was not still madly in love with 
Nevill? Do women change so? Is it possible ever 
to change when one has loved as she had loved 
Nevill? loved? 

Nico was everything that Nevill was n’t. Even to 
try to compare them was out of the question. If 
she had once loved a man like Nevill Davies, how 
would it be possible for her to love a man like Nicholas 
Wayne? So utterly different. Nico made her suffer. 
He had caused her endless suffering. She suffered 
through him in the death of their child. But Nevill 
would have wrapped her round in soft comfort; 
Nevill, in giving her a world of everlasting sweetness, 
would have hidden from her this other world of suffer¬ 
ing. She thought how she had planned to look after 
the parish poor, and a sad little smile tortured her 
lips. As Nevill’s wife, what would she have known 
of poverty? Those had been dreams. Ah, but 
sweet dreams! And this was—her mind fumbled, 
wavered toward sleep. Dreams I 

A stumbling, loose-jointed step sounded on the 
stairs. That would be Lonny coming up. But how 
careful he was, really. 


OBLIGATIONS 


265 

Virginia raised herself on one elbow, wide-awake 
now. The rumbling, heavy breathing of Marietta 
went on undisturbed. Poor Marietta! How fond she 
had been of Cherry. 

Lonny was not long over the business of retiring. 
A startling thump proclaimed him abed. Then si¬ 
lence again, except for Marietta’s breathing. 

Virginia lit the candle conveniently to hand, and 
slipped on her dressing-gown. Nico was all alone 
down-stairs. He had hinted at wanting to murder 
her. But that didn’t matter. Both of them had 
said harsh things; she had called him brutal, said 
she had nothing to live for. Unjust and wicked, 
when their hearts were both bleeding to death. 

She must speak to him, tell him she was sorry. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


T he kitchen was empty. The only illumination 
came from the candle Virginia carried, and a 
little flicker from the dying fire. Where was 
Nicholas? In there? She pushed open the door 
leading to the bedroom, but he was not there; nothing 
was there but the cold chill of death. 

Yes, decidedly the kitchen had a deserted look. 
Why was that? Empty. Ah, the picture—Nico’s 
masterpiece—was gone! There was such a blank 
space on the wall against which it had rested. That 
was why the room looked so empty. 

Fear leaped at her throat and held her in a deadly 

grip. 

Where had Nico gone? What could be his pur¬ 
pose in leaving the house at this hour, with his picture 
—the wonderful picture that was to make their for¬ 
tune? So nearly finished, too. . . . But Nico, Nico! 

She went to the garden door and called his name 
to the night. The wind blew in and cut like knives 
through her scanty attire. The candle blew out. 

Shuddering, she closed the door again and relit the 
candle. 

Had he gone to kill himself? Perhaps he had left 
266 


OBLIGATIONS 


267 


a note for her. She searched carefully, but there was 
nothing. After a while she sat down on the couch 
that had been prepared for his bed, and drew a blan¬ 
ket around her. She was glad Marietta had n’t wak¬ 
ened. Perhaps Nico would come back in a little 
while. The crazy clock ticked violently, and it seemed 
to Virginia that her heart kept time with its erratic 
click. She sat staring at the face of the clock as 
though fascinated. 

Past two, and he had not come back. 

Nearly three now. 

She fell wearily sidewise, drew herself up on the 
couch, shivering under the thin blanket, and finally 
fell asleep. 

The candle had guttered out long since when at 
six o’clock Marietta came down the stairs, wearing 
her red flannel petticoat and a shawl over her night¬ 
gown. Marietta looked stupid as well as tired, her 
face smoothly glassy, in need of a freshening wash. 

‘What did you get up so early for?” she asked. 

Virginia stirred and roused herself. 

‘T’ve been here all night,” she said. 

‘‘Whatever for?” 

“Waiting for my husband. He—he went out. 

“Went out? Whatever for?” 

“I don’t know,’' Virginia replied. “He took the 

picture.” 

Marietta’s slow gaze traveled around the kitchen 
and absorbed the fact that Virginia had stated. 


268 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘Well—he’s done a bunk she exclaimed. “Some¬ 
how, I would n’t ’ve thought it of Mr. Wayne. But 
men are all alike. It’s pretty rough on you. At a 
time like this.” 

“You think he—he’s gone—I mean, not coming 
back?” 

“Looks like it,” muttered Marietta. “A good time 
to go, too. The picture was all he cared about, 
really.” 

“I thought you liked him,” said Virginia. 

This amazing turn-about of Marietta astonished 
her more than Nico’s behavior. Marietta had always 
hated her and adored Nicholas. 

“I did like him,” Marietta replied scornfully. 
“Well, we’d better pull ourselves together. I ’ll 
make up the fire. You stay where you are until it’s 
warmer and I get the coffee on.” 

Could it be true that Nico had deserted her? And 
—as Marietta had remarked—at a time like this. It 
seemed incomprehensible. What was she to do? 

She felt lonely and humiliated. If only Nico had 
waited a few moments; if only she had gone down¬ 
stairs a little sooner. 

“Dad might know something,” Marietta said, when 
she had finished with the stove. 

Of course he might! It had n’t been more than ten 
minutes after Lonny came up that Virginia herself 
went down. 


OBLIGATIONS 


269 


‘‘Oh, do ask him,” she urged. 

Lonny’s daughter shrilled up the stairs at him and 
in time got a grumbling response. A little later he ap¬ 
peared looking slightly more bloodshot of eye than 
usual, and unpleasantly in need of a shave. 

No, he knew nothing. Possibly he had known but 
could not remember. He was as surprised as any¬ 
body else to hear that Nicholas Wayne had gone off 
like that. 

“But you must have known,” Marietta said sharply. 
“Both of you sitting here drinking until all hours—” 

“I may have had a drop or two—just to hearten 
me up,” Lonny admitted, “but Mr. Wayne did n’t. 
He did n’t have nothink, I give you my word. We 
just talked a bit—’bout the weather mostly—^wonder¬ 
ing if it’d rain to-day, and things like that.” 

Marietta glared at her father. Her contemptuous 
dislike of him was the most consistent thing about her. 

“He must have said something—dropped some 
sort of a hint,” she said. 

“He may have,” Lonny agreed. “That I couldn’t 
say. I wouldn’t be noticing, not thinking of such 
things.” 

“No, all you’d be noticing’d be the gin-bottle and 
how much more was in it. I can believe you would n’t 
take heed of anything else. Go shave yourself, and 
put on your black clothes. There’s hot water on the 
stove up-stairs. The funeral’s at eleven o’clock, so 


OBLIGATIONS 


270 

you want to look sharp. Here, give me that bottle. 
You 'll stay sober this morning if I have to lock 
you up." 

Lonny flushed angrily under his gray stubble of 
beard. 

‘To hear you talk, anybody'd think I was a drunk¬ 
ard,” he muttered, “Your own father, too. You 
ought to be ashamed of yourself. But of course, 
with a mother like you had—” 

“You leave my mother alone,” Marietta said tensely. 
“She was too good for you; too clever—” 

“You bet she was too clever,” Lonny flung back 
over his shoulder as he disappeared toward the stairs. 

Marietta sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and drew 
down her lips. 

“Well, Mrs. Wayne, you 'n' me must face this busi¬ 
ness together. Men are all alike. Go and dress. 
Put on my best black skirt. I laid it out for you. 
With your black coat over it 'll look like mourning, 
and I '11 fix you up a hat with a veil. I've got a 
black-bordered handkerchief I can lend you, too. I 
found it in the street one day. You 'll look very nice, 
I'm sure.” 

The responsibility for the poor little funeral left 
Marietta scant time for indulging her own grief. 

“You must give me some money,” she said apologet¬ 
ically. “That is—^well, you have got it, have n’t you ? 
The grave-digger has to be paid in advance, and 
there's several other little things I don't suppose 


OBLIGATIONS 


271 


you’d want to be bothered about, yourself.’^ She 
thought a hundred francs would meet the case nicely. 

Virginia handed it over, Nevill’s money to bury 
Nico’s child. But that would have been quite bear¬ 
able if Nico himself hadn’t basely run away, if he 
had remained and been coaxed to see eye to eye with 
her about Nevill’s kindness. For it had been kind¬ 
ness on Nevill’s part, and nothing more; a generous 
wish to help them. 

The morning drew on. There was an air of quiet 
busyness in the cottage. Neighboring peasants came 
in to have a last look at the little wax doll that had 
been Cherry, and say a prayer for the repose of her 
innocent soul. Dr. and Mme. Dessau came, and at 
eleven o’clock the procession started across the 
meadow, two men carrying the small white box on a 
trestle, Virginia, Marietta, and Lonny walking close 
behind, then the Dessaus, and about a dozen old men 
and women with a few children following. The path 
was narrow, and presently they had to walk in single 
file because the ground on either side was so rough 
and uneven. Virginia stumbled along, half-blinded 
by the thick crape veil Marietta had felt was suitable 
to the occasion. It scarcely seemed real to her, that 
she was herself, all alone in the world like this, so 
entirely bereft. There were flowers on the little 
coffln, a wreath of lilies from the Dessaus, and some 
white chrysanthemums Marietta had bought and la¬ 
beled with a funeral card bearing her own and her 


272 


OBLIGATIONS 


father's names. She had allowed Lonny to share with 
her in this public act of love. But there were no 
flowers from Nicholas and Virginia. Tears of pitiful 
self-reproach ran down Virginia’s face. Why had n’t 
she thought of flowers? But there had been so little 
time. Yesterday she had been at Chiostro’s, sitting 
stiffly, her whole attention fixed on that hateful tele¬ 
phone. And to-day they were burying her baby. 
Yet it did n’t seem in the least real. 

Her thoughts flew back. Reality had ended in a 
curious fashion that day when Chiostro had clapped 
her on the back in the Boul’ Mich’ and invited her to 
come to tea in his temporary studio. For a wild sec¬ 
ond she had thought Chiostro was a stranger and had 
been on the point of plunging headlong into the dan¬ 
gerous street traffic to get away from him. If only 
she had done it! Then in all probability she would 
never have met Nicholas Wayne again; she would now 
have been Nevill’s wife for over two years, instead 
of Nico’s. Yes—and she would have been happy. 
Common sense told her that. She would have been 
the mother of Nevill’s child, and Nevill’s child 
would n’t have died. The little organ pealed solemnly; 
there were lights on the altar; it was cold kneeling on 
the stone floor. 

Now they were gathered around the raw, yellow 
hole in the earth; Marietta was sobbing, and Lonny 
coughed in a distressing fashion. Virginia found 
herself leaning heavily on Dr. Dessau’s arm. She 


OBLIGATIONS 


273 


had thought the sun was shining, but suddenly it 
seemed black night. Somebody held her up, and 
the pungent odor of smelling-salts burned her nostrils. 

^T’m all right,” she gasped. 

The sun shone again, and they all trailed back across 
the meadow. It was over. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


T he baby had been in her little grave for more 
than a week before Nicholas Wayne came home 

again. 

The weather had turned warmer, the beginning of 
a January thaw. It was so mild that Marietta Collins 
sat in Virginia’s kitchen with the windows and doors 
open. The room itself was changed, not subtly but 
most decisively. Marietta had brought down some of 
her own furniture and her sewing-machine. She was 
in great good luck at the moment. The daughter of 
a local tradesman was going to be married and had 
commissioned Marietta to make her trousseau. They 
were rich people, and a lot of things had been ordered. 
It was the sort of commission of which Marietta had 
dreamed ever since she started in the dressmaking 
business. 

Her thoughts raced with the sewing-machine. She 
could turn the bedroom that had been occupied by the 
Waynes into a work-room for the several girls her 
(hoped-for) prosperity would soon demand; the 
kitchen itself could be made into a passable show-room^ 
and in the windows, displayed on gilt stands, should 
be arranged a choice assortment of millinery—^mourn- 
274 


OBLIGATIONS 


275 


ing hats and bonnets in one window, and more 
sprightly creations in the other. Perhaps a few Paris 
models would find their way to the emporium of 
Marietta. There should be a gilt sign over the door, 
and the walls must be freshly painted. But before 
long Marietta’s ambition outran the modest cottage of 
Les Prairies and took a shop in the principal street of 
St.-Cloud; and a little later it was established in Paris; 
indeed, in the Rue de la Paix itself, and Marietta was 
creating the very models which lesser shops would en¬ 
treat her to sell to them. Only she would n’t; not to 
any little second-rate shops in St.-Cloud, anyway; 
only to a severely limited clientele; perhaps not to 
any shops at all, but only to those ladies of the great 
world whose titles and riches gave them the right to 
beg for her creations. Perhaps only to ladies like 
the queen of Spain and the wives of a few American 
millionaires, who were notoriously particular about 
what they wore, but careless of the cost. 

With an effort. Marietta brought herself back to 
Les Prairies and Mademoiselle Lucie Grebault’s 
wedding-dress. She had spread a sheet on the floor 
so that the heavy white silk fabric should not suffer, 
and was marvelously neat herself, in a bright cre¬ 
tonne pinafore, her red hair shining in deep marcel 
waves, her sleeves turned up to the elbows. She had 
very pretty arms and hands, which no amount of 
housework seemed to damage. To-day she looked 
serious, but not so sulky as usual. With the depar- 


OBLIGATIONS 


276 

ture of the Waynes, a load had lifted from her mind. 

They had beep a disturbance to her in so many ways, 
but now that it was over, philosophy came to her aid. 
She admitted a lot of things to herself in a cold¬ 
blooded, almost heartless fashion. She admitted that 
she had been at one time so madly in love with Nicholas 
that were it possible she would have torn him away 
from his wife; she admitted that she had disliked Vir¬ 
ginia to a point where thoughts of poison had entered 
her head, that this intense dislike had melted in an 
inexplicable way when the baby died; most strange of 
all, she admitted that she was getting over the baby's 
death. 

Then a shadow fell across the threshold, and she 
looked up to see Nicholas standing there. 

It was so unexpected that Marietta's mouth fell 
open, and she stared with an effect of disapproval or 
annoyance. In her mind, his bedroom had already 
been converted into her work-room. Already it 
seemed to her that two slightly malingering seam¬ 
stresses were in there, gossiping about her in whispers, 
and that presently she ought to get up and see how 
they were progressing with their tasks. And here was 
Mr. Wayne come back—without his picture, too— 
looking a horrible wreck. 

He returned her stare briefly, stepped into the 
kitchen, and hung up his hat in its accustomed place. 
She noticed that he limped a little, although he had 
no stick. He was very white and thin, shrunken in 


OBLIGATIONS 


277 

his shabby clothes, which hung on him as though he 
were a scarecrow fashioned of bean-poles. 

“Where’s my wife?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” said Marietta. 

“Where did she go?” 

“I don’t know,” Marietta said again. 

“Well, then—how long has she been gone?” Nicholas 
was getting testy. 

Marietta flicked him a sidewise glance and bent 
over her sewing. 

“Three days,” she replied briefly. 

^Whatr 

“I said three days.” 

“What’s this mean? What are you doing down 
here in my—my apartments ? What d’ ye mean, my 
wife’s been gone three days? What ’ve you brought 
your furniture down here for?” 

“Because I’ve taken the cottage,” said Marietta. 
“Mrs. Wayne let me keep your things for what she 
owed me, but they ’re scarcely worth a couple of bob, 
you ’ll admit. When you ran away and deserted 
her—” 

“I didn’t!” Nicholas shouted. He quivered with 
rage, or some kindred emotion. 

Marietta sniffed audibly, but she was interested 
enough to give him her attention. 

“I don’t know what you call it, then—sneaking off 
in the middle of the night like that, without a single 
word to anybody, taking your precious picture with 


OBLIGATIONS 


278 

you—it was all you cared about, that rotten old pic¬ 
ture!—leaving her like that, with the poor little baby 
and all. I don’t know what you call it, but I know 
what I call it. And so now you’ve come back! Well, 
you have n’t got any claim on me, and Mrs. Wayne 
ain’t here, and the landlord’s given me the house. I 
can pay the rent, which is more than’s been done very 
regular lately. And when it comes to that, it is n’t 
so very much more than we paid you for the attics. 
You made a good thing off us, you did.” 

Nicholas crossed over to the chimney-place and took 
up his favorite position against the mantelpiece. 
Physical wreck that he was, he looked rather impressive. 

‘^When you’ve finished—” he said with painful 
courtesy. ‘'Try to remember that you ’re not ranting 
at your father.” 

Marietta bit her lip, and the old sulky expression 
came back into her eyes. She began to sew again, 
furiously. 

Was it worth while telling her? Nicholas tried not 
to sneer, tried not to feel as ugly as he did feel. He 
had never liked Marietta, and he did not like her now. 

He turned as Lonny’s step sounded in the scullery. 

“Don’t you come in here with your muddy boots!” 
screamed Marietta. 

Nicholas looked down at his own boots, and then 
at the tracks they had made on her clean floor, 

“Hello, Lonny!” he called. 


OBLIGATIONS 


279 


‘‘By all that’s powerful!” exclaimed the old man, 
craning in his head, but keeping his feet well on the 
scullery side of the door-sill. 

“Yes, I ^m back,” said Nicholas, with a distinct note 
of bitterness in his voice. “And Marietta has been 
giving me such a pleasant welcome! Shall we go out 
into the garden for a talk? It’s too clean in here, and, 
besides, I understand it is n^t my house any more.” 

Marietta hastily began to gather up Mademoiselle 
Grebault’s finery. If they went into the garden she 
would miss what they might be saying. She could 
not very well follow them without an invitation or a 
lowering of her dignity. 

“You can stay. Come in, dad—but wipe your 
boots. It’s about tea-time, anyway, and too damp in 
the garden for you, dad.” So silky was her tone that 
no one would have been surprised had she added 
“dear” to her solicitude for her father’s getting chilled 
in the garden. 

“Just as you like,” Lonny said, agreeably surprised. 

He attended to his feet while Marietta put away 
her dressmaking. 

“You been gone a long time,” he said, when he 
came in again. “Over a week, ain’t it ? We did n’t 
know where you’d gone. Mrs. Wayne was terrible 
upset—” 

“She was n’t, either,” snapped Marietta. 

Nicholas frowned at his bleary-eyed little friend. 


28 o 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘‘But, Lonny, I told you what to tell my wife. I 
knew if I told her myself she’d only raise an argu¬ 
ment, so I left it to you.” 

Lonny looked indescribably, pathetically blank. 

“Told—me—what?” he murmured. “When?” 

“Why, the night—you know—” 

“The night the baby died and you sat up all hours 
drinking,” explained the brutally frank Marietta. 

“What did you tell me, Mr. Wayne?” Lonny asked 
huskily. 

“I said that there was only one way I could think 
of to raise any money, and it had to be done.” He 
pointed to the empty wall-space against which his 
nearly finished picture had rested. “Don’t you 
remember?” 

Lonny coughed and shook his head. “ ’Fraid I 
don’t. We talked about the weather, I know.” 

“That was earlier. Good God, man, do you mean 
to say my wife really thought I ran away and left her ? 
Didn’t you tell her?” 

“He was drunk,” explained Marietta. “He never 
remembers a thing when he’s drunk.” 

Lonny hung his wretched head. “I had a drop or 
two—I admit it—^but I never get drunk.” 

“A-a-a-h!” sneered Marietta. “You make me sick.” 

“Where is my wife?” Nicholas demanded. 

The Collins pair shook their heads. Marietta was 
beginning to soften toward the deserter. His manner 
had the air of truthfulness, and no one knew better 


OBLIGATIONS 281 

than she that her father was not a responsible 
witness. 

“Mrs. Wayne had a letter from somebody—from 
London, I think it was,” Marietta said. '‘She went to 
Mr. Chiostro’s on Wednesday—^the day after the 
funeral. I think she was hoping you might come back, 
but you did n’t, and she was desperately hard up. 
Then she got this letter, and there was some money 
in it, and with what she already had she paid all the 
bills—even the doctor—and fixed it up with me about 
the cottage. Then she said there was n’t much good 
her staying here any longer, particularly as this person, 
whoever it was wrote to her, wanted her to come over 
to London. She said she had friends there who’d 
look after her. That was Sunday. She went away 
on Sunday. She may have gone to London, but she 
was n’t any too certain about that. She said that this 
friend, whoever it was, might meet her in Paris. 
And that’s all we know, Mr. Wayne. One thing is 
pretty certain: she won’t come back here. She said 
she wanted to forget the horror of it all soon’s ever 
she could, and I promised to look after the baby’s 
grave. She said that if ever she came back it 
would n’t be for a long, long time, when she’d be 
strong enough to bear it. Why did n’t you let her 
know? Where’ve you been all this time?” 

“In hospital,” Nicholas said vaguely. “I knew a 
man I thought I might . . . interest in my picture.” 
He spat out the word contemptuously. “And I did 


282 


OBLIGATIONS 


interest him—to the tune of ten thousand francs. 
fThat's what I got for it.’' 

“You sold it unfinished?” Marietta asked, puzzled. 

“Exactly. Unfinished it proved to be worth ten 
thousand francs to me. I dare say I should n t have 
got tuppence for it in the regular way; I dare say 
they would n’t even have condescended to accept it for 
the Salon. As it was—^well, never mind that. It was 
the only way I could get the money, and I’ve got 
it. ... I walked all the way to Paris that night—” 

“Lor’ lumme, and you’d been to Versailles in the 
afternoon!” gasped Lonny. 

“I got to this fellow’s place about six in the morn¬ 
ing, and waited in the concierge’s room until ten— 
four hours more—^before he could see me. . . . After 
I got the money out of him, I started for home again, 
but by that time I was pretty well all in. I don’t quite 
know what happened to me. I remember I went into 
a cafe to get some coffee, and the heat or something 
bowled me over. They called an ambulance and took 
me to a hospital, and for a few days I was all dithery. 
This morning they let me out. I did n’t send word 
home because I did n’t want to worry Jinny—my wife. 
I told Lonny to tell her I’d be home just as soon as 
I’d sold the picture. She would n’t have known how 
long it was going to take me to do that, and it seemed 
wicked to add to her worries. I thought I’d get back 
in time for the funeral, as a matter of fact. I thought 
this fellow would see me earlier, and I’d planned to 


OBLIGATIONS 


283 

taxi back, if I was lucky. I wish I had n’t stopped 
for that coffee. Only I was feeling so groggy. 
You Ve no idea. . . 

He swayed slightly as he finished speaking, and 
Marietta ran to him in alarm and dragged him to 
a chair. 

“It does seem a ’orrible mix-up,” murmured Lonny. 

''You!'' snapped Marietta. “I’d keep quiet if I 
was you. You ’re the one that’s to blame. If it 
had n’t been for you—” 

“Oh, leave him alone,” Nicholas said wearily. 
“Nobody’s to blame. Like everything else, it just 
happened.” 

“Give him a cup o’ tea,” Lonny whispered. 
“That ’ll strengthen him. Or perhaps—” 

“Kindly keep out of my way. I’m getting the tea, 
and it’s all Mr. Wayne needs, or wants. I wonder 
you have the nerve to show your face. I wonder 
you don’t go straight out after this and take the pledge. 
I wonder—” The rest of her wondering was lost in 
the scullery amid the banging of plates. 

Lonny sat and blinked disconsolately. He felt quite 
as wretched as he deserved, or even as Marietta would 
have had him feel. 

“It’s too bad. I’m sorry, sir—indeed, I am. 
How I could’ve forgotten anything so important 
beats me. It must have been the drink. It could n’t 
be anythink else. Where do you suppose Mrs. Wayne 
might’ve gone, sir?” 


OBLIGATIONS 


284 

Nice’s lips tightened; his nostrils looked cold and 
pinched. He thought he knew quite well where Vir¬ 
ginia had gone and to whom. That scoundrel Davies 
. . . writing to her, sending her more money. And 
if men were all alike, so were women. Offer them 
money, the one bait they simply could n’t resist. He 
thought of that dreadful scene, with the baby lying 
dead in the next room, when he had dragged out of 
Jinny the truth about her sudden wealth. And he 
had taken possession of the money himself. Ugh! 
He could feel it scorching him even now. He had 
thrown it on the floor, and Marietta had helped her 
to pick it up. How he had loathed himself for letting 
them do it; loathed himself for being so helpless! 
Then it had come to him that he could sell his soul, 
or, in other words, find a purchaser for his unfinished 
picture. Well, he had done it; sold his soul, and the 
price was in his pockets. Ten thousand francs, a 
goodly sum for the price of one’s soul. 

But Jinny was gone. Well, had n’t he often chafed 
for his bachelor freedom back again ? Had n’t he 
been dissatisfied with her, cruelly hurt by her strange 
manner of indifference? Now that the baby was 
dead, perhaps it was just as well things had turned 
out this way. Jinny could divorce him and start life 
all over again with her precious Nevill Davies. All 
in a lifetime. This was just an episode. One would 
forget it. He told himself that it did n’t hurt a bit; 
that he did n’t care; that, in fact, he was rather glad. 


OBLIGATIONS 285 

She was cold and heartless, a woman who had moved 
in a dream. 

And then he seemed to see her as she had looked 
that day when first Chiostro brought her to the studio, 
in her soft chinchilla furs, so warm, so radiantly 
lovely, so moved to find that he was the same Nicholas 
Wayne she had played with when they both were chil¬ 
dren. She had been as frightened and as sweet as a 
wild bird, and from the very first his hands had itched 
to capture her. 

Well, he had captured her for a time. He had 
broken her fluttering wings with the harshness of pov¬ 
erty. Yet somehow, although she had rested so tamely 
in his grasp, he never seemed really to have possessed 
her. 

Marietta set his tea before him, and he drank it 
in moody silence. Indeed, the silence hung heavy be¬ 
tween all three of them, disturbed only by Lonny’s 
little nervous cough and loud sippings. 

After a long time Marietta spoke. 

She said: '‘You ’ll stop here, won’t you, Mr. 
Wayne? You’re quite welcome.” 

Nicholas shook his head. 

“No, thanks. I ’ll just collect a few things from 
the garage, and then I ’ll be off. My clothes will go 
into a bag.” 

Another silence. Then Lonny piped: 

“Where might you be going, sir, in case—” 

“To the devil,” Nicholas said pleasantly. 


CHAPTER XXX 


N icholas had been wrong in his assumption 
that Virginia had flown to the protection of her 
wealthy admirer. It happened that she did not see 
Nevill again until the spring was well advanced, and 
even then it was quite by accident. He had not writ¬ 
ten to her, but she had sent him back the fatal five 
hundred francs, with a warm note of thanks for the 
loan, and the assurance that she was not in need any 
more. The letter described to Nicholas by Marietta 
Collins had come from the Mr. Duncan of the Ameri¬ 
can embassy in London, the man Mollie Shaw had 
seen when she went to verify the bad news about the 
O’Dares. Duncan was an old friend of Malcolm 
O’Dare’s and one of the executors of his will. It 
turned out that there was a little money for Virginia, 
enough ultimately to make an income of a few thou¬ 
sand dollars a year; and, hearing from Mollie Shaw 
that she was very hard up, Duncan was arranging a 
quick settlement of the estate, meanwhile allowing Vir¬ 
ginia enough to live upon. 

She had gone across to London to see Bob Duncan, 
and, being a good American himself, he strongly ad¬ 
vised her to return to her own country. At first Vir- 
286 


OBLIGATIONS 


287 

ginia agreed. She even went to inquire about a 
steamship passage, but came out of the office with 
nothing definitely settled, not even in her mind. Her 
loneliness was appalling, but no one knew of it. Once 
she was strongly tempted to call upon Mollie Shaw, 
but there had never been much sympathy between 
them; their tastes were utterly different, except per¬ 
haps in one thing. They were both very fond of 
Nevill. It was because of Nevill, really, that Virginia 
decided not to go. Mollie would be sure to remind her 
of him, if not by actual speech, then by an association 
of ideas; and Virginia did not feel sure enough of 
herself just now to meet Nevill or even think about 
him. 

As a matter of fact, she thought about him very 
little, but Nicholas was constantly in her mind. At 
first bitter toward her husband for the heartless way 
in which he had seemed to desert her, she inevitably 
softened as time went by. Virginia could never feel 
harsh toward any one for long, and in her thoughts 
of Nicholas there developed a groping sort of tender¬ 
ness connected with their desperately hard life to¬ 
gether and the baby they had both loved so dearly. A 
hazy longing to see him took possession of her at 
times, and it was because of this—in the very begin¬ 
ning before she had quite ceased to condemn him— 
that she could not bring herself to go away where 
in all likelihood they would never meet again. Be¬ 
cause of that feeling she returned to Paris and 


288 


OBLIGATIONS 


to Chiostro^s studio. That was late in February. 

Chiostro received her with reproaches and open 
arms. He reminded her that she had undertaken to 
sit for his Herculean design of Tranquillity, which 
meanwhile—pending the fulfilment of her obligation 
—he had set aside. It seemed not to have occurred 
to him that she entirely might have ignored the obli¬ 
gation, that it would have been a Virginia-like thing 
for her to do. However, he accepted her apologies* 
and resumed work at once. She found a small fur¬ 
nished apartment close by and lived there alone, with 
a daily servant coming in to clean up. Most of her 
meals she took in the restaurants of the Quartier, al¬ 
ways with her eye out for Nicholas. 

Chiostro did not know what had become of him. 
He had n’t been seen in any of his old haunts, nor 
had the river given up his body. He might be dead, 
but there was no record of it. Chiostro nosed about 
a bit to find out in order to satisfy his own curiosity, 
but no one knew anything of Nicholas Wayne, alive 
or dead. He had just disappeared. The only peo¬ 
ple who could have furnished a slight clue to him were 
the Collinses, but they were not communicated with, 
and even they did not know what became of him after 
his brief reappearance in St.-Cloud. 

The winter and most of the spring wore away. 
Chiostro had finished Tranquillity and was now work¬ 
ing on a figure called Poetry, for which Virginia 
also sat. She came four or five days a week now. 


OBLIGATIONS 


289 

glad of the work because it filled in her time, glad 
even to form a friendship with gray little Madame 
Chiostro, whose existence seemed as colorless as her 
own. Sometimes they dined out together, for Chiostro 
went often to his club, and sometimes Madame 
Chiostro would invite Virginia to stay for dinner at 
the studio. Virginia’s little flat in the Rue Leonie 
was up four flights of stairs, not any too comfortable 
nor well furnished; but, as always, she was indifferent 
to her surroundings. It really seemed not to matter 
at all. But her hands recovered in idleness their for¬ 
mer whiteness, and she bought herself some decent 
clothes. The borrowed black and the enshrouding 
crape veil of the funeral had given her a strong aver¬ 
sion to mourning. It seemed somehow an undignified 
way of showing respect for one’s dead. Madame 
Chiostro thought otherwise and often spoke feelingly 
of the splendid mourning she herself would order in 
the sad event of her becoming a widow. Occasionally 
it seemed to Virginia that Madame Chiostro gloated 
over the possibility of one day being obliged to order 
all those heavy crape garments. 

It was in May that Virginia and Nevill met again. 
Chiostro was giving a tea-party to show off some of 
his work that was too late for the spring Sa¬ 
lon. As usual it was a crush, with caterers look¬ 
ing after the refreshments and Madame Chiostro 
looking for a corner in which to sequester herself. 
Virginia had not meant to come, but half an hour 


290 


OBLIGATIONS 


before the first guests could be expected Chiostro 
trotted around to the Rue Leonie and fetched her. 

'‘This is all nonsense/’ he stormed. "You know 
how helpless—how utterly useless mama is on an oc¬ 
casion of this sort—and you propose calmly to leave 
me in the lurch. There should be a limit to your 
selfishness, my dear.” 

Virginia said she was afraid she would run into 
all sorts of people she had known in better days; they 
might not ask questions, but they would revive gossip 
about her and be curious. That was why she did n’t 
want to come. 

Chiostro thrust her into her bedroom, shut the door, 
and bellowed through the keyhole: "I ’ll give you 
ten minutes and no more. Put on that heliotrope 
thing, and I ’ll lend you a string of beads I bought 
for mama twenty-five years ago. She’s got them 
somewhere. . . . And put on your hat with the white 
camellias. ... I never heard of such nonsense, any¬ 
way. You want to stand up to the world, not lie 
down and invite it to kick you.” 

So Virginia attended the party and wore all the 
things she had been ordered to put on, including 
Madame Chiostro’s necklace of heavily chased gold, a 
more beautiful ornament than Chiostro’s simple de¬ 
scription of it implied. 

And incidentally she met Nevill again. 

It was so like that other time, that first time, yet 
so entirely different. Here again her own portrait 


OBLIGATIONS 


291 


was the subject of lively discussion, and Chiostro the 
presiding spirit of the show. Here again were Nevill 
and she—but not as young soon-to-be lovers. Here 
again was Mollie Shaw, younger-looking, more 
sprightly than ever, yet, underneath it all, nervously 
apprehensive, keeping an anxious eye on Nevill and 
working around to that moment when she herself 
could have a quiet word with Virginia. 

The two who had loved each other so well and 
trampled on that love so ruthlessly met timidly across 
their gulf of memories. 

Nevill hoped Virginia was well. After a moment’s 
hesitation, he hoped also that her husband was in a 
satisfactory state of health. 

Virginia looked out of the window and noticed how 
lovely the flowering chestnuts were. 

‘^My husband,” she repeated vaguely. '^Oh, I 
haven’t seen him for a long time. He went away 
after the baby died.” 

'The baby—^your baby died!” Nevill gasped. He 
had n’t even known that. 

“Oh, yes,” Virginia replied. “She died that day— 
the last time I saw you.” 

“But you did n’t tell me when you wrote—when you 
sent back that confounded money.” 

“No. I did n’t want you to worry about me.” 

He hesitated. Then he said bleakly, “Have you 
. . . separated from Wayne?” 

Virginia shook her head. “No—that is—well, I 


292 


OBLIGATIONS 


don’t know. He just . . . went away. It was too 
much for him, I suppose.” 

"The coward!” Nevill muttered. 

Virginia appeared to be turning this over in her 
mind. 

What was the matter with Nevill? Of course he 
had loved her; perhaps he still did love her; she was 
used to that idea. But the passionate regret in his 
eyes implied more than hopeless love. 

"T’d rather not talk about Nico,” she said quietly. 
"T don’t want to misjudge him myself; and, after all, 
I am the only one who could possibly be concerned 
by what he did. It is so easy to misjudge people. He 
may be dead. . . . Are you in Paris for long?” 

""No—I don’t know. It depends upon Mollie. I 
did n’t want to come here at all. Ghastly idea. But 
Mollie is very fond of Paris.” 

If there was any significance in this speech, it was 
lost on Virginia. 

""She’s staying with some friends in the Bois,” 
Nevill said. ""I am at the Regina.” 

Chiostro bustled up and edged Nevill to one side. 
""My dear, I ’ve some news for you,” he whispered. 

""News?” Then Virginia’s face quickened into an 
expression of eagerness. ""Not of Nico?” 

""I think so. Have you been to the Salon ?” 

""No,” she shook her head. 

""Neither have 1. But I’m going to-morrow. 
We ’ll go together. Look here—” He flourished a 


OBLIGATIONS 


^93 

magazine somebody had just shown him which had 
reproductions of a dozen or so of the pictures ex¬ 
hibited. ‘Xook here; what do you make of that? 
As I predicted, they say it's the picture of the year. 
Nico^s portrait of you and the baby. Only he seems 
to have entered it under another name. You see: 
^Georges Lampere.’ ’’ 

^Tt is Nico’s picture!” Virginia exclaimed. ‘^Oh, 
I’m so glad—so glad!” 

Tears brimmed into her eyes. 

‘Tranke, of ^Le Monde Parisien,^ tells me it will 
make his reputation. Everybody’s talking about it. 
Only you and I seem not to have heard. They ’re 
full of this Georges Lampere; he’s keeping himself a 
bit of a mystery. Old Bensheimer, the dealer, has 
tried to get in touch with him; but according to 
Bensheimer he’s out of town just now. The address 
is given in the catalogue, but I can’t find anybody 
here who has one. We shall know to-morrow. Ah, 
Jinny, did n’t I tell you—did n’t I predict—” 

Her eyes glowed warmly, and she seized Chiostro’s 
hands. ‘'You did—oh, you did! Poor Nico! I’m 
so glad— glad/^ 

Chiostro smiled benevolently upon her. 

“You’ve got a forgiving nature,” he said. 

“No—I don’t think so. You see . . 

And once more, in the Virginia way, she left a sen¬ 
tence unfinished, her meaning not clear. 

“Well, the young scoundrel will have no excuse after 


294 


OBLIGATIONS 


this to moan over his poverty. Dear me, I wonder 
how Nicholas Wayne can bear success! It won’t go 
to his head; that I ’ll swear. He ’ll be gloomier than 
ever.” 

Virginia laughed, ripplingly, light-heartedly. “Don’t 
be too hard on him. Yes, we ’ll go together and have 
a look at it to-morrow, and perhaps ...” 

“His address is in the catalogue,” Chiostro reminded 
her. 

“I know. That’s what I was thinking. I want to 
see him. D'o you think it would be very dreadful if—” 

“If you called on your own husband?” 

“Well, I did mean that.” 

“He ought to come crawling on his knees to you,” 
Chiostro said angrily. 

Nevill was listening to all this, although he had 
half turned away at Chiostro’s interruption. He 
wanted to say something, but in the present circum¬ 
stances there was nothing at all to be said. 

Resolutely Mollie Shaw was edging her way toward 
them, being stopped now and again by various ac¬ 
quaintances. As her approach seemed imminent, 
Nevill himself moved off. He did it casually—too 
casually. 

Chiostro turned to answer a question of Franke, the 
art critic. “Yes, it’s quite true. Here, let me pre¬ 
sent you to Mrs. Wayne. It will make a great sensa¬ 
tion. Wayne is an American—scarcely more than a 
boy. I always predicted success for him. Next to 


OBLIGATIONS 


295 

myself he will be the greatest portrait-painter of our 
day/^ 

They all laughed, and distinguished-looking little 
Franke, with his waxed mustache and bright beady 
eyes, bent low over Virginia’s hand. 

“It is a great honor to meet you,” he murmured. 
“And, madame, a great honor has been paid you by 
your husband. The picture is, indeed, marvelous. 
But, of course, there is no doubt? I think it would 
be just as well if you, Mrs. Wayne, and Fedor were 
to go and see it. Very strange. This fellow 
Lampere, now—one has heard of a Georges Lampere 
—but it may be merely coincidence that your hus¬ 
band chose to sign his picture by that name.” 

At this point Mollie Shaw reached Virginia, and 
Nevill was now some distance away, having removed 
himself by discreet retreats during Mollie’s advance. 
She looked disappointedly in the direction of his back, 
but it was impossible to summon him without rudeness 
to an old lady with whom he appeared to be deep in 
conversation. 

“Oh, Virginia, I’ve been so longing to get to you,” 
Mollie gushed prettily. “My dear, you ’re looking so 
well; so much better than when I last saw you! Why 
did n’t you let me know when you were in London ? 
And how is that handsome husband of yours, and 
the darling babe?” 

Virginia winced. It was as she had feared; so 
many people curious and interested about her. That 


OBLIGATIONS 


296 

is to say, Nevill and Mrs. Shaw were. She did n^t 
want to talk about Nico and the baby, yet it was im¬ 
possible to forget how kind Mrs. Shaw had been, tak¬ 
ing the trouble to come all the way out to St.-Cloud 
to break the sad news about her parents to her. And 
Mollie Shaw could n’t help looking radiant and jolly 
and beautiful. It was her habit. 

They moved nearer to the window and sat down 
on the broad sill. That saved a moment, and the brief 
interruption made it unnecessary for Virginia to an¬ 
swer any of Mollie’s previous questions. 

‘‘Well?” the bright little woman demanded, her lips 
smiling but her eyes uneasy. “Are n’t you going to 
say anything? Hasn’t Nevill told you our news? 
Of course it’s a dead secret yet, but I said he might 
tell you. The family know, and I always felt that 
you were one of the family.” She laughed. “You 
very nearly were, were n’t you?” 

“Yes, nearly,” Virginia replied. It seemed a little 
indelicate of Mrs. Shaw to make a joke like that. 
“But Nevill has n’t told me an 3 d;hing special.” She 
wrinkled her brows, wondering what it was exactly 
that Nevill and she had talked about. Mostly about 
Nico, and Nevill had looked so passionately regretful, 
so hurt and annoyed. 

Mollie pouted. 

“That’s really too unkind of him. Perhaps he 
thought that you—that he—well, Nevill is a funny 
sort of person, anyway. Like you, Jinny dear. One 


OBLIGATIONS 


297 

never knows that he’s thinking. Now, with me— 
everybody knows, don’t they? . . . Jinny, Nevill 
and I are engaged to be married.” 

And now Virginia understood Nevill’s queerness, 
his moving off like that so pointedly, the struggle he 
appeared to be having with himself. She understood 
it right down to its very source, and an immense 
feeling of pity for Mollie Shaw welled up in her heart. 
Nevill was engaged to his cousin and didn’t want to 
be; and when he discovered that Nico and she were 
separated, he was filled with a burning sense of in¬ 
justice at finding himself tied. “Is this a blow to 
me?” thought Virginia. She felt thoroughly bewil¬ 
dered. Yes, in a sense, it was a blow. It had sur¬ 
prised her, and the surprise showed plainly in her eyes 
and parted lips. 

Mollie laughed nervously and played with Madame 
Chiostro’s gold beads, pulling Virginia a little toward 
her in a confidential, affectionate manner. 

“Don’t tell me you ’re still in love with him!” she 
coaxed, in pretended consternation. 

‘T shall always be fond of Nevill,” Virginia replied. 
“But, indeed, I do wish you all happiness. You— 
you could n’t find a better man in all the world than 
Nevill.” 

Mollie’s face fell into serious, anxious lines. 

“I know that,” she said. “I’ve cared for him a 
great many years. Not in that way while Tom was 
alive, of course.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


298 

Virginia wondered how it could have made any dif¬ 
ference, Tom being alive or dead. Love seemed a dis¬ 
tressing thing in her own consciousness. For a brief 
spell it had made her happy, but that was its ghastly 
way. It played about with you, and then . . . one 
was left high and dry, somehow. Yet it had been her 
own fault, losing Nevill. Even now, if she wanted to 
—she looked at him across the room—yes, she could 
get him back again if she wanted him to come. Mr. 
Duncan had tried to talk to her about the advisability 
of dissolving her marriage, and so had Chiostro. 
Everybody seemed to have such a poor opinion of 
Nico. It was understood from the first that she had 
made a ghastly mistake in marrying him, but only 
Nevill really knew why she had done it. She blessed 
Nevill for his insight. He had been so careful not to 
reproach her. And now? It was much better for 
him to marry Mollie. 

A little later she saw him again. They met at the 
top of the stairs, where he was waiting for Mollie 
to make her farewells. It looked as though he had 
escaped to avoid another encounter with Virginia, and 
this second meeting caused him dreadful embarrass¬ 
ment. They were quite alone for the moment. 

‘‘You must think me an awful cad,^’ he blurted out, 
his face very pink. 

Virginia smiled kindly upon him. “No, Nevill, but 
I do think you ’re a bit of a fraud. My dear, please 
let me congratulate you.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


299 

“Don’t/* he said hoarsely. “I can’t bear to hear 
anything of that sort from you.” 

She laid a hand on his arm and gave him a deci¬ 
sive little shake. “You are being very foolish.” 

“If I thought for a moment that you still cared 
for me—^but there’s something unreal about you, Vir¬ 
ginia. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s as 
though I’d just dreamed you.” 

“And Mollie is very real, is n’t she ?” Virginia said 
musingly. “Yes, Nevill, I am something that you’ve 
dreamed, and it’s time you woke up.” 

She smiled again and went quickly down the stairs. 
When she reached the bottom she was very white and 
tired-looking, and there were little drawn lines about 
her mouth. She had left early, alone and as unob¬ 
trusively as she could, because it had seemed impos¬ 
sible to wait until to-morrow before going to see 
Nico’s picture. There was still nearly an hour before 
V closing-time, and by taking a cab she could reach the 
Grand Palais in the Champs-Elysees quite quickly. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


I T was amazing and very puzzling. 

Nico’s portrait of herself and the baby beyond 
all doubt, scarcely touched since that last sitting, the 
day before Christmas; almost, one might say—and 
some of the critics had said it—magnificently incom¬ 
plete. There were some few smudges of white paint, 
high lights, that did not look like Nico’s work, and 
the sterner critics had also observed these. The cat¬ 
alogue called it ‘"Maternity,” and the artist was set 
down as one Georges Lampere with an address in the 
exclusive Faubourg quarter, but the picture itself was 
not signed. Virginia looked in vain for the rather 
pretentious ''N. Wayne” that always decorated the 
lower right-hand corner of Nicholas’s creations. 
There was nothing even faintly resembling a signature. 

The galleries were nearly empty, but a small group 
lingered in the vicinity of the ruthless and already 
much-discussed portrait. Two evidently were paint¬ 
ers, and one was arguing furiously to, rather than 
with, his companion, the latter being somewhat silent. 
Virginia, her veil lowered, stood with her back to 
them. 

It is impossible, I tell you. Lampere never 
300 


OBLIGATIONS 


301 


painted a thing in his life worth hanging. Influence? 
Of course he’s got influence. Is n’t his father-in-law 
on the committee? Old Rochefeld has been hurling 
him at the Society for years. But he never painted 
this. . . . Money? Mon Dieu —^you should see his 
studio! And him. One day I ’ll take you. He’s 
bitten off more than he can chew this time. I hear 
it’s been sold for a hundred thousand, and the dealers 
will all be after him. Unless he’s got his ghost 
handy, he ’ll be in a devil of a mess. Lampere! He 
never painted it, I tell you. . . .” 

Virginia stood quite still until they had drifted 
away. Her heart was beating madly. What did it 
mean, that talk? Could it be possible that Nico was 
not ‘'Georges Lampere” ? Then there was fraud 
somewhere. 

She left the Grand Palais dazed but curiously res¬ 
olute. She must see this man, whoever he was. 
Chiostro said there was a rumor that he had left town, 
but that might not be true. She noted the address, not 
more than a good stone’s throw from here. 

Twilight was beginning to fall when she found the 
place, one of those impressive private residences in the 
fashionable quarter of Paris. A massive pair of 
bronze gates barred the entrance, and a very smartly 
uniformed concierge answered her ring. 

No, Monsieur Lampere was not at home. But 
something in the man’s expression informed Virginia 
that this was a polite fiction. 


302 


OBLIGATIONS 


‘Will you tell him, please, that Mrs. Nicholas 
Wayne wishes to see him. I ’ll only detain him a mo¬ 
ment. It is rather important.” 

The concierge asked her to write down her name. 
He would see. Possibly monsieur had returned. It 
was merely possible. Meanwhile, if she would be so 
kind as to take a seat in his office . . . 

When he came back, it was to announce that some¬ 
how Monsieur Lampere had managed to return un¬ 
beknown to him. He smiled, betraying fine teeth. 
Yes, monsieur would see madame. Would she please 
come this way? 

He led her across a paved courtyard, set with tubs 
of fantastically clipped yew-trees and flowering shrubs, 
to a sumptuous entrance, which in marble stairs, 
wrought-bronze balustrades, and other elegancies pro¬ 
claimed the high financial status of its owner. 

Here a footman took charge of her, one of the 
powdered, knee-breeched tribe, which still survives in 
the outposts of Parisian society. As she mounted the 
stairs in his wake, Virginia felt an unaccustomed an¬ 
ger rising in her breast. With each step she took, 
the anger mounted, also, until when the top was 
reached she seemed on the point of boiling over. 

“But perhaps,” she said to herself, “Nico really 
does live here; perhaps he has found a wealthy patron; 
perhaps he is ‘Georges Lampere.’ ” She said that to 
quiet her anger, reminding herself sternly what she 
had said to Nevill about its being so easy to misjudge 


OBLIGATIONS 


303 


people. If Nico were “Georges Lampere/' then 
everything was all right. In the joy of his success 
she could forgive him his treatment of her. It would 
be enough to say, “Nico—I am so glad, for your 
sake!’’ 

The footman opened another pair of magnificent 
doors and announced her impressively. 

It was an enormous room, apparently a studio, yet 
very different from the rather barren-looking work¬ 
rooms of the painters familiar to Virginia. There 
was a north window, but the light from it had to 
filter through a marvelous silk Persian shawl, which 
gave the jeweled effect of stained glass. The parquet 
floor was strewn with costly rugs; two couches were 
spread with tiger-skins; a white polar bearskin was 
stretched before the hearth. There was a great carved 
marble fireplace; gilt and blue Venetian marriage- 
chests; old mirrors in carved frames; a welter of in¬ 
disputably expensive and presumably antique tables, 
cupboards, tapestried chairs, and countless ohjets 
d'art. 

For spaciousness and wealthy attention to detail, 
Virginia had never seen a room in real life to equal 
it. Yet it was curiously familiar. Where had she 
. . . ah, yes! On the cinema screen it was very fa¬ 
miliar, indeed. All the “movie” millionaires lived in 
houses much like this one. 

At first she thought she had been announced to 
the furniture; there did not seem to be anybody here. 


304 


OBLIGATIONS 


But suddenly a small, strange figure rose up from the 
shelter of one of the huge arm-chairs and came cau¬ 
tiously to meet her, treading like a distrustful cat, and 
indeed bearing a distinct resemblance to a domesticated 
feline. He was sleek, with a round inquiring face, 
spiky eyebrows and mustache, full pink lips, narrowed 
eyes. His black hair fell softly and snugly back from 
a bumpy, protruding brow. It seemed to fit him like a 
fur cap. His hands were very white. As he came 
stealthily toward Virginia, he held them behind his 
back, wagging them in a gentle, nervous fashion. 

“Are you Monsieur Lampere?’^ she asked, slightly 
taken aback by his appearance. 

He hesitated briefly, then said, “At your service, 
madame.’^ 

“I am Mrs. Wayne—the wife of the painter.^' 

“Pray be seated, madame.’’ 

He indicated one of the chairs, but Virginia shook 
her head. 

“It is not necessary. I have just come from the 
Grand Palais. I have seen your picture—” 

“Madame is kind—” 

“No, I’m not in the least kind. I want to know 
how you dared —how you had the audacity to exhibit 
that picture under your name? You know who I 
am—” 

The little man shrugged his shoulders, but it was 
not a convincing gesture. 

“If madame would only be seated,” he purred. 


OBLIGATIONS 


305 


Virginia sat down on the extreme edge of the chair 
he had offered, and her host seated himself opposite, 
crossing one knee over the other, setting the tips of his 
white fingers together. His costume—it could only 
be called a costume—was grotesquely disturbing to her 
thoughts. The wide velvet trousers fitted close at the 
ankles above small feet clad in white silk hosiery and 
flat-heeled patent leather, the coat of purple silk fas¬ 
tened with a green crystal button over a flowered waist¬ 
coat, the flowing black tie and Byronic lawn collar, 
all tended to take her mind from her unpleasant er¬ 
rand. This was not a man; it was a mountebank; 
yet nevertheless it took itself seriously. 

“As I feared, madame, blackmail,’' he said. 

^Whatr 

“You are here to blackmail me, I assume. Yet your 
husband gave me his solemn assurance that nothing of 
the kind would happen.” 

“Did my husband agree to this? Did he sell you 
his picture on the understanding that you would exhibit 
it under your name ?” 

“He did, madame. Some time ago I asked Wayne 

to_er—to collaborate with me, and he declined. 

When he came to me with this unfinished portrait, I 
understood from him that it was a case of urgency. 
His wife was starving, he said; and his child had 
died. He wanted money, at once. I paid him well, 
and I have his receipt and written guarantee that he 
would not interfere with me if I finished it and ex- 


3o6 obligations 

hibited under my own name. If your husband has sent 
you to me—’’ 

“He has n’t/’ Virginia said breathlessly. 

She was trapped. Nico had given his word, his 
guarantee. There was nothing at all she could do but 
make a more or less dignified exit. 

“Then why have you come, madame?” 

The cat was getting more courageous. He glared 
at her. 

She tried to glare back, but it was a failure. 

“I haven’t seen my husband,” she faltered. “Not 
since he went away with the picture. I did n’t know 
what he meant to do with it. When I heard about 
its being hung—everybody, it seems, is talking about 
it—I thought possibly that Nico had exhibited it under 
another name. I wanted to see him. That’s really 
why I came here. Do you know where he is?” 

Lampere shook his head. “I have n’t seen him since 
that morning. He told me he’d walked all the way 
from St.-Cloud, and he looked it. I gave him ten 
thousand francs for his picture—” 

“And you’ve sold it for a hundred thousand,” Vir¬ 
ginia said quickly. 

“How do you know?” 

Instantly he was on the defensive. 

“People talk, and one hears them. Already Fedor 
Chiostro has told Franke of ‘Le Monde Parisien’ that 
my husband painted the picture. There is going to 
be trouble for you, monsieur.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


307 


“Mon DieuThe absurd little man sprang up, his 
white fingers extended claw-wise. “But what do you 
mean? How does Chiostro know?” 

“He came to St.-Cloud often while it was being 
painted. I *m sorry, Monsieur Lampere, but I’m 
afraid the matter has gone too far now to be recalled. 
Since you have Nico’s guarantee, I will say nothing 
myself, but my very silence will hurt you. And I know 
Fedor Chiostro so well! Nothing will stop him. He 
had Nico’s success so much at heart. It was this after¬ 
noon at his place they were all talking about it, and at 
the Salon I heard a man saying positively that he knew 
you hadn’t painted it. He said he hoped, for your 
sake, that you had your ghost handy. He also said 
something about influence, that your father-in-law 
was on the committee . . 

She kept on, because her audience was so visibly 
moved. He blanched to a deathly whiteness and 
clawed ruthlessly at his soft furry hair; the pink, pout¬ 
ing lips were sucked in, the sleepy eyes bulging. 

“But this means ruin —ruini You should have 
told me—” 

“I am telling you.” 

“My poor father-in-law I He is innocent, I swear. 
What am I to do? Chiostro, Franke ... all the 
rest of them. Could you make a bargain with Chio¬ 
stro to keep silent?” 

“I doubt it. But already he has spoken,” Virginia 
said. 


OBLIGATIONS 


308 

Hope was beating high in her heart, yet never had 
she looked more impassive, more quietly mysterious. 
Perhaps poor Nico was dead. It was the kindest 
thing to think of him. But at least he might get his 
posthumous tribute as far as his genius went. 

“What shall I do?’^ demanded the half-frenzied 
Lampere. “What do you suggest, Madame ? For the 
love of heaven, suggest something.” 

“I have thought of something,” Virginia said slowly. 
“But perhaps—” 

“Anything— anything! This will ruin not only my¬ 
self but others—those who trusted me. Although, in¬ 
deed, I put work into it . . .” 

“The high lights. Yes. I noticed them.” Then 
Virginia smiled, that soft, elusive smile of hers that 
could draw hearts by a thread, that suggested so much 
of friendliness, of happy confidence, yet at the same 
time raised troubled doubts and questions in the mind 
of the recipient. 

“Monsieur Lampere, why not make a magnificent 
gesture,” she said impulsively. “Confess that you 
perpetrated this—^this seeming fraud in order to help 
my husband. Apologize to the committee for your 
prank. But do it quickly, at once. Chiostro does nT 
know I Ve seen the picture. We were to go together 
to-morrow. I won’t tell him I ’ve been. If you are 
quick you can get in ahead of everybody, of the critics, 
of all the people who are beginning to ask questions. 
I ’ll play straight with you. My husband’s honor is 


OBLIGATIONS 


309 

at stake, so you can rely on me. It can’t be helped 
now, and that—as far as I can see—is the only thing 
for you to do. Will you?” 

To her great surprise, Georges Lampere threw out 
his meager chest and thumped it with a soft white fist. 

‘‘But, madame, you have anticipated me,” he said 
grandiloquently. ‘T was only testing you. That, 
indeed, had been my intention from the first. My 
father-in-law is in my confidence. I think we both 
know genius when we see it. In English it is what you 
call ‘the grand spoof.’ Am I not right? I could 
never paint, but at least I can appreciate the merits of 
a great artist when I see his work. Your husband is 
a genius. I saw it long ago. I— I —saw it. He 
must come forward now from his obscurity and take 
his rightful place. Ninety thousand francs waiting 
for him, eh? Not so bad. And more commissions 
than he can possibly fill.” 

So really simple at heart was Virginia that she al¬ 
most believed this. She glowed and dimpled. Yes, 
Nico had come into his own at last. 

But where was Nico? 

She drooped apologetically. She had misjudged 
Georges Lampere. How easy it was to misjudge! 
Well, anyway, she had misjudged him a little. 

He was prepared to make his magnificent gesture. 
She could feel him already yearning toward the tele^ 
phone, impatient to say good-by to her, yet quite 
politely impatient. He asked for her address, men- 


310 


OBLIGATIONS 


tioned the sum of ninety thousand francs again, 
begged her to remember all she had promised about 
keeping silent, and rang for the stage footman to see 
her out. 

She went dreamily, uncertain, and, in a way, 
unsatisfied. 

Very much unsatisfied, really, because of that tor¬ 
menting question: Where was Nico ? 


CHAPTER XXXII 


G eorges LAMPERE kept his word because he 
had to; he made his magnificent gesture, and 
Paris shrieked with derisive delight; that is to say, 
the small portion of Paris directly involved and in¬ 
terested. The simpler people, who swallowed what 
their newspapers told them and happily knew art only 
in the abstract, accepted the story as gospel. 

“Here,’’ they said—those simpler ones, “it just 
proves what jealousy and intrigues go on in those cir¬ 
cles. H’mn. . . . Here’s a poor devil of an un¬ 
known artist, paints a really fine picture and can only 
get it accepted by the Salon through a trick. That 
Lampere, now, he’s a pretty decent sort. How sick 
and sold the committee must be feeling with them¬ 
selves ! Good joke on them. Ha, ha! A very good 
joke, indeed.” 

The committee were feeling sick and sold, but not 
quite in the way the great public imagined. They 
knew perfectly well that Georges Lampere was no 
joking philanthropist; they knew that he had confessed 
because he was in danger of being caught; but they 
had their own integrity to protect; they were obliged to 
stand together solidly and accept the “joke,” although 
311 


OBLIGATIONS 


312 

it meant being cruelly laughed at and criticized. For 
the sake of Lampere’s father-in-law, an honest old man 
of sterling qualities, they had to agree to the story. 
And the critics agreed and accepted it, with their 
tongues in their cheeks. 

Georges Lampere, generous patron of art, had con¬ 
trived to help an unknown painter to fame in a single 
day. 

Who was this fellow Nicholas Wayne? Above all, 
where was he ? 

The mystery about him deepened, swelled into a 
passionate plea to him to come forward and wear his 
laurel wreath. Some of the more cynical of those 
interested declared that his remaining in obscurity was 
merely clever press work. But as days went by the 
sensation became overdue. 

'T think,’^ Chiostro suggested to Virginia, ‘‘that 
really we ought to go to the police. If he’s alive he 
would be sure to have heard of this, and trust Nico to 
show himself. It was what he wanted.” 

“Do you think he’s dead?” she whispered. 

“My dear girl, you know him as well as I do. I 
ask you, if he were alive—” 

“I thought I knew him. But there it is: how do 
you account for his walking all the way to Paris that 
night to see Lampere and—and fix up that thing—and 
getting ten thousand francs . . . was n’t it too 
awfully kind of Monsieur Lampere to advance him 
so much money? And then—” 


OBLIGATIONS 


313 


‘‘Nonsense!” Chiostro’s beard quivered with in¬ 
dignation. “Now, don’t pretend to me that you be¬ 
lieve that yarn I That fellow Lampere 1 Lord, how 
I could ever have forgotten who the little wretch was 
when first I heard his name! And old Rochefeld the 
biggest fool on the committee. I ’ll have nothing more 
to do with them after this; I ’ll found a society of my 
own; I ’ll—” 

“Now, Papa Chiostro, what do we really care, so 
long as Nico gets his reward?” 

“Oh, I don’t care,” grumbled Chiostro, “only I should 
have liked to see Lampere fairly caught, not let down 
easily like this. I’d give a good deal to know who 
tipped him off.” (Fortunately Virginia’s deep blush 
passed unnoticed.) “Somebody must have got wind of 
it here that afternoon. It all started here, if you re¬ 
member. Why, you and I were the only two people 
in the world except Nico who knew about that picture.” 

“But we talked a lot, didn’t we?” murmured Vir¬ 
ginia. “Your whole tea-party was buzzing with it be¬ 
fore we’d done.” 

“All the same, I can’t think who could have tipped 
Lampere off so quickly. It was n’t Franke; that I ’ll 
swear. He was as mad as a hornet when the other 
papers got in ahead of him with the frame-up. He 
was all ready to soak Lampere and Roche feld and the 
whole boiling of ’em. No, it wasn’t Franke.” 

Virginia’s blush deepened. She was n’t sorry, how¬ 
ever, that she had done what she had done. Of course 


314 


OBLIGATIONS 


it was wrong, very wrong, of Monsieur Lampere to 
have tried to deceive people, but, in a way, so it had 
been a little wrong of Nicholas. In helping to white¬ 
wash the one she had entirely purified the other. No, 
she was n't sorry. Quite hastily she diverted the con¬ 
versation back to its original channel. 

“I don't want to go to the police," she said. ‘Tf 
poor Nico is dead I—I'd almost rather not know. I'd 
like to keep thinking, hoping, that he's alive and well, 
and that some day . . 

Chiostro lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. 
It was difficult to tell about him. Perhaps he was half 
in love with her, although she certainly did n't suspect 
it. At least he did n't think so. 

^‘You 're fond of the boy . . . still?" he asked. “I 
thought it was really Davies." 

“Nevill is going to marry Mollie Shaw," Virginia 
replied. 

Chiostro released her. 

“You could get him away from her by winking." 

“Well, then—I shall try not to wink," Virginia said 
solemnly. 

• Chiostro laughed. “You curious woman. Do you 
remember, I used to call you the sphinx-maiden? 
What do you really know of love. Jinny?" 

She stared at him vaguely, her hands pressed to her 
heart; tears filled her eyes, and he saw that he had 
hurt her without in the least meaning it. 

“What do I know of love?" she repeated. “Only 


OBLIGATIONS 


315 

—a great emptiness, a great longing and loneliness. 
That is what I know ... of love.” 

He started toward her with an impulsive gesture, 
and at that moment little Madame Chiostro glided into 
the room, a gray disturbing shadow. 

“Tea, papa?” 

“Oh . . . damn tea! Yes, yes, of course, mama. 
Bring it at once. We have finished work for 
to-day.” 

The gray shadow glided out again, but it flung a 
backward glance over its shoulder. Chiostro saw the 
glance, and for him the spell was slightly broken. 

“She is so useful, mama,” he said to Virginia. “So 
very punctual with her tea. Always on time, to the 
minute. Did you ever see anything like it? There 
when wanted, but never—h’mn—never in the way; 
you Ve probably noticed.” 

“I think she finds life a little dull sometimes,” Vir¬ 
ginia ventured. 

“Pooh! How’s that ? And what about you ? 
Don’t you »find life dull ? Ton my soul, a pretty young 
woman like you, living the way you do. It’s inhuman. 
Jinny. But you ’re inhuman yourself. You ’re still 
the sphinx. You always will be. What do you do 
with yourself all the time? How do you spend your 
evenings ?” 

“Why, I manage all right,” Virginia said placidly. 
“Dinner fills in some time. I generally go to the little 
restaurant on the corner near where Nico’s old studio 


OBLIGATIONS 


316 

was. It’s very amusing and almost quite respectable. 
I Ve got acquainted with lots of people.’^ 

“What sort of people?’^ Chiostro asked quickly. 

“Oh, mostly students and girls—’’ 

“Jinny, I don’t like—” 

“But they ’re quite harmless, really. And so poor 
and anxious, most of them! Of course I can’t stand 
the freaks.” 

“Well, to-night you’d better have dinner with me. 
Not a bad idea, eh?” 

“I should love it!” Virginia exclaimed. “How 
awfully kind of you to trouble about me.” Then, as 
the gray shadow glided in again, burdened with a sub¬ 
stantial tea-tray, she called out gaily: “What do you 
think? Papa Chiostro is going to take us out to din¬ 
ner ? Is n’t that splendid ?” 

Chiostro made a quick grimace, and the shadow— 
in its astonishment—almost dropped the tray. 

“Not really!” gasped Madame Chiostro. “Why, 
papa, it must be ten years since—” 

“Yes, really” Virginia interrupted. “He just this 
moment said so.” 

“I don’t know’s it’s anything to kick up such a 
shindy about,” Chiostro said sulkily. 

He was awfully cross with Virginia and wondered if 
she had done it on purpose. It was impossible to tell, 
and she was such a deep one. He would have liked to 
take her to dinner, talk cozily with her apart from the 
everlasting studio, find out possibly if there were any- 


OBLIGATIONS 


317 


thifig more to her than the cool unruffled surface she 
presented so easily. Perhaps, after all, she was n’t 
deep, and she certainly was a bit of a fool to have 
dragged poor mama into this. Mama could n’t really 
wish to come, yet now one could n’t very well say one 
had n’t intended to invite her, that the invitation had 
been strictly limited. He had meant to take Virginia 
to a wonderful place, meant to get her to wear her 
heliotrope frock and the hat with the camellias and 
mama’s gold beads. But now—any old place would 
do, and any old clothes as far as he was concerned. 

But as the tea progressed Virginia drew him into her 
own sense of excitement, and even the little gray 
shadow became illuminated with a curious and star¬ 
tling rosiness. Mama, it seemed, intended to wear her 
gold beads herself, and Virginia was most emphatic 
about calling in the hair-dresser and hunting up a 
certain fine white lace shawl; for of course it was a 
grand occasion, and papa would be sure to take them 
somewhere splendid. They must meet it accordingly. 

‘‘He hates cheap restaurants; don’t you, Papa 
Chiostro ?” 

He muttered an affirmative and fled, shouting back 
over his shoulder that they were both to be ready at 
seven thirty, and perhaps he would come back in time 
to dress and perhaps he would n’t. 

The little gray shadow looked after him wistfully. 
“It almost seems as though he did n’t want to take us 
after all,” she murmured. 


OBLIGATIONS 


318 

“Not a bit of it/' Virginia said heartily. “That’s 
only his way. I 'll send the hair-dresser to you on 
my way home, and I 'll hurry back as fast as ever I 
can to help you. Don’t forget the shawl.” 

“Oh, no, I '11 get it out at once,” Madame Chiostro 
replied, her cheerfulness restored. 

Virginia ran down the stairs, smiling ruefully to 
herself. “The old fraud,” she muttered. “Selfish old 
pig-” 

In case of misunderstanding, it is just as well to 
state that her derogatory remark was not directed at 
poor Madame Chiostro. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


I T happened that Chiostro suffered a change of heart 
before the appointed hour of festivity arrived. He 
had gone out pettishly annoyed with. Virginia, with his 
wife and himself. 

Some little distance down the boulevard he came to 
a florist’s window blazing with all the generous wealth 
of spring, and here he halted meditatively, a finger to 
his puckered lips. In the old days one gave flowers to 
ladies one happened to be taking out to dine. Was it 
really ten years since he had appeared publicly with 
mama on his arm? They had been married nearly 
thirty. Virginia might easily be their daughter. 
They had never had any children, but often Chiostro 
had wished ... he sighed and entered the florist’s 
shop. 

“Two bouquets, please, for the corsage,” he said 
pompously. “Not stingy ones, mind you—for my 
wife and daughter. I am taking them out to dine 
to-night.” 

Polite and sympathetic inquiry elicited that his pref¬ 
erence was violets for the elder lady and camellias for 
the younger. No camellias? What was the florist 
about that he had no camellias? Oh, well, then—yes, 
319 


320 


OBLIGATIONS 


pink malmaisons would do. They would have to do. 
Yes—grudgingly—^they were very pretty, arranged 
flat like that with a cardboard disk behind them to 
keep moisture off the bodice, and a spray or two 
of maidenhair fern. Very pretty, really. Were the 
violets quite fresh? He was assured that they were 
of a freshness unequaled; gathered that morning. 
Always gather them when the dew is still on them, and 
then . . . monsieur will be pleased to note that the 
dew is still on them. In fact, very much on them. 
They are drenched in dew; indeed, they need drying a 
little. 

Now comes the careful and poetic wrapping in 
glazed paper, the presentation of two long pins, which 
the ladies will doubtless appreciate; Chiostro fumbling 
in his pocket and finding that he has only just enough 
money to pay for his gallant purchase. He will have 
to borrow from mama for the dinner. Well, indeed, 
that she had been invited. Would she have enough? 
Oh, yes, he had given her a thousand francs for the 
housekeeping only yesterday. Sure to have enough 
left out of that. At the same time, better hurry back 
home and make sure. Otherwise, he must go across 
to the club and cash a check. Beastly bother if he had 
to do that. 

‘'A boutonniere for monsieur ? No charge. A pres¬ 
ent, monsieur.” 

He accepted the white carnation with its little spray 
of fern and smiled. It reminded him of a wedding 


OBLIGATIONS 


321 


and decided once and for all the duty of getting into 
evening-clothes. It was a long time since anybody had 
made Fedor Chiostro a present. He felt grateful, 
humbly touched. 

‘‘But yes—thank you very much,” he said, almost 
with the effect of a stammer. 

How nice it was to be going out to dinner with 
one’s wife . . . and daughter! Truly a family man. 
Would it not be an anniversary? So easy to make it 
one. 

“My daughter’s birthday,” he said, pausing for an 
instant at the door. “She is a very beautiful girl.” 

He loved that little florist’s shop; the crisp, scented 
parcels delighted his hands. Surely mama would have 
enough money. They must have a bottle of cham¬ 
pagne. His “daughter’s birthday” demanded that. 
Was mama really going to have her hair dressed? He 
threw back his head and laughed. Some things are 
funny, yet delightful, too—oh, most delightful. 

And now he was not at all sorry that mama was in¬ 
cluded in this little party of his, which had originally 
germinated in his mind quite differently. She fitted 
into the “family” picture. A picture it was. His ro¬ 
mantic lie to the florist had set the scene. Indeed, they 
would dine well and at the restaurant he had first 
thought of, even if it did entail a hurried drive across 
the river to cash a check. But surely, of a whole 
thousand francs, mama would have enough left. 

He panted up the stairs like an overfed school-boy. 


322 


OBLIGATIONS 


“Mama—mama 

But Madame Chiostro at that moment was seques¬ 
tered with a handsome young man from the hair¬ 
dressing establishment. 

Chiostro burst in upon them and was suddenly aware 
of fierce jealousy. A man in mama^s room, behaving 
very familiarly, indeed, patting and coaxing the thin 
gray locks into a coiffure of astonishing fullness and 
beauty; thrusting a mirror into her hands and entreat¬ 
ing her to admire the back view; standing off with an 
air of rapture while she did so, lost in ecstasy at the vi¬ 
sion she presented, and finally calling upon monsieur 
himself to pass an opinion. 

Chiostro said: “Humph—well, there does n’t seem 
to be anything more to be done to it, does there ? Oh, 
yes, very fine, indeed. Pay him, mama. I must 
change my clothes and do not wish an audience.” 

The hair-dresser gathered together the tools of his 
trade, was paid and handsomely tipped by Madame 
Chiostro, and took himself off with charming tact. 

“Such a good-looking young man!” gushed Madame 
Chiostro. “So pleasant, yet so capable! He told me 
such a lot of interesting things about people in this 
neighborhood. It seems that beautiful young English 
girl we are always meeting in the gardens with her big 
dog is the second wife of old Professor Lorenz, and 
the way they happened to get acquainted is a most 
romantic story.” 


OBLIGATIONS 


323 


What on earth had come over mama? Chiostro 
hadn’t known such an unloosening of her tongue in 
years. Grumpily, a little shyly, he presented her with 
the bouquet of violets, and when she blushed and kissed 
him he felt ashamed—of he knew not what. 

He began to grumble about his clothes, which for 
once in a married lifetime she had forgotten to lay 
out, and while she was flying around rectifying her re¬ 
missness he satisfied himself that she had plenty of 
money for their party, and told her about his lie to 
the florist. 

She paused, holding his dress-shirt in so fierce a 
grip that its stiff bosom crackled indignantly. 

“Oh, papa,” she quavered, “I thought—I was afraid 

_^but our daughter! Yes, it will be nice to pretend 

that Jinny is our daughter. I did n’t know you thought 
of her like that. It’s a very pleasant thought. She 
has been so nice to me, and I love her.” 

Chiostro occupied himself in silence with his dress¬ 
ing. He still felt a little ashamed, but not exactly 
because his old wife had kissed him. And now that 
he troubled to look at her, mama did n’t seem so old. 
Her wonderful coiffure made a different woman of her; 
she held herself more erect because of it—or because 
of the hair-dresser’s compliments—she was almost pink 
in her pleasure over the violets. 

“You are more handsome,” she said suddenly, with¬ 
out any particular context. 


OBLIGATIONS 


324 

Chiostro, occupied with his red ribbon of the Legion 
of Honor, on which there appeared to be a speck of 
something, was surprised. 

“More handsome than who?’^ he asked. 

“Than the young man from the hair-dresser’s,*’ 
Madame Chiostro replied, smiling warmly upon him. 

“I hope so,” he said curtly. To himself he thought: 
“I shall have to watch her. She is only fifty-three. 
One never knows. There is no fool like a middle- 
aged . . .” But there he stopped and laughed softly. 
No fool like a middle-aged woman?—or should it be 
a middle-aged man? 

“Why are you laughing?” asked Madame Chiostro, 
who was back at the dressing-table now, still entranced 
with her own vision, and occupied in dredging her 
face with powder. 

“Because I am so happy,” Chiostro confessed. 
“Hark! I think I hear some one.” He poked his 
head into the studio. “Hello 1 ready in a minute. . . . 
It’s Jinny, mama. Do make haste. I am ravenous.” 

Such a delightful evening as they had! Yes, Chio¬ 
stro was happy, and for more than one reason. He had 
just experienced a very narrow escape from a peril that 
had existed for him more or less during the whole of 
his career, the peril of falling unlawfully in love. 
Sometimes . . . but this had been the narrowest es¬ 
cape of them all. Even now he could not look at Vir¬ 
ginia without secretly worshiping her. He told him¬ 
self that he loved her as an artist loves, which is very 


OBLIGATIONS 


325 


different from the way of an ordinary man. Yet it 
had its points of semblance to the more human variety. 
But now she was his “daughter,” and that was safe 
enough. They told her about the little joke, and she 
joined in it. For some time past she had addressed 
them privately by the familiar names of papa and 
mama; but now she did it publicly, before the waiter 
in the restaurant, and for those who sat at adjacent 
tables to hear. 

She looked so wistfully sweet in the soft colors of 
spring, with the pink malmaisons pinned at her breast 
and the wide, shadowy hat with its wreath of white 
camellias. 

“She shall have my gold beads,” said Madame Chio- 
stro, who felt very selfish in wearing them herself. 
“It is our adoption gift.” And being sentimentally 
warmed with champagne, she insisted upon the presen¬ 
tation taking place then and there. 

“And we will leave her our money,” Chiostro con¬ 
tributed, forgetting for the moment that in all proba¬ 
bility there would be very little money to leave. 

''All of it,” his wife agreed. 

But privately Chiostro thought: “Jinny must n’t sit 
to me any more. She is too beautiful, and while I am 
an artist—first, always, an artist—I am also human.” 

She had enough to live on now, and the loss of the 
sittings would be his, not hers. But he hoped she 
wouldn’t sit to anybody else, either. She was too 
beautiful, too alluring, and men would always want her. 


OBLIGATIONS 


326 

They could nT help themselves, poor devils, and it only 
bewildered Jinny, who apparently wanted nothing at all 
but to be left alone in that strange world of dreams 
where she dwelt so insecurely. She knew love as a 
loneliness, as an emptiness of the heart ... a dan¬ 
gerous creed to expound to an audience of the opposite 
sex. Who could have withstood that simple appeal? 
No, Chiostro did n’t feel that he blamed himself; and 
it needed but little reflection to see that he did n’t blame 
Virginia. She had done nothing . . . except side¬ 
track him. And she had done that so innocently that 
by now he was quite certain it was n’t on purpose, and 
so he need n’t feel under the necessity of showing 
resentment. 

Flushed with their excellent dinner, they emerged 
from the restaurant, walking abreast, Chiostro in the 
middle with a lady on either arm. The night was warm 
and inviting, a Parisian night in late spring, with the 
scent of the limes and chestnuts, with lights and laugh¬ 
ter and reckless motors speeding over the polished 
glassy asphalt, a pleasant jostling of people on the 
pavements, the outdoor cafes crowded, newsboys shout¬ 
ing, the looming of the EifiFel Tower threaded with 
lights, the flower-women offering wares from their 
advertisement-bedecked kiosks, the river flowing, lap¬ 
ping and gurgling against the bridges, dark and mys¬ 
terious with a hoarse hoot here and there and a red 
or green light to mark the trail of a tugboat. 

Madame Chiostro did n’t want to go home; none of 


OBLIGATIONS 


327 


them did. They went to a cafe chantant, where the 
stage was an open-air one, and they sat in a garden 
at a little table and ordered coffee and syrups. 

Above and about them was the glow and murmur of 
Paris, the indescribable radiance and whisper of that 
enchanted city where night-time can be more beautiful 
than anywhere else in the world, more beautiful and 
innocent. There might also be ugliness, but one can 
only see through one’s own heart and eyes, and to-night 
for the Chiostros and Virginia Wayne there was noth¬ 
ing to be seen but beauty. 

They were silent now, partly because of the interrup- 
tive music, partly because of pleasant lassitude. 

Chiostro was wondering why he had n’t thought of 
taking mama and Jinny out to dinner before; in the 
future they must have plenty of these family excur¬ 
sions; so dull for mama being cooped up at home all 
the time, so dangerous for Jinny going off to restau¬ 
rants by herself and making undesirable acquaintances. 
Yes, he must look after them better in the future. 
Unaware that privately Virginia had forestalled the 
description, he called himself an old pig. 

Madame Chiostro’s reflections were simple and de¬ 
void of morbid self-condemnation. She was occupied 
merely in making sure that she was still alive. It might 
be that one died and went to heaven without knowing 
it, and she wanted so much to be alive, to be able to 
say—when she did die—that life on this earth had been 
worth the effort. 


OBLIGATIONS 


328 

Under cover of the velvety darkness, some one took 
her meager little paw and infolded it in a friendly 
pressure. Her heart bumped up into her throat—papa 
to do a thing like that! She began to tremble, and, in 
an effort to dissemble her emotion, demanded another 
raspberry syrup. 

Virginia sat a little apart from them, her eyes fixed 
on the stage, where a family of zither players in pink 
tights and tinsel were dispensing ancient harmonies. 
Nobody paid much attention to them, but they kept on 
in a businesslike state of boredom; only a few minutes 
more, and the flappy little curtain would go down for 
the last time. Even Virginia, for all of her attentive 
gaze, was not seeing or hearing them. Her real vision 
was elsewhere, groping painfully through episode after 
episode that had led her finally to this garden, and next 
would lead her—where? For she, too, realized that 
she could not sit to Papa Chiostro any more, and now 
that that was over her days would be emptier than ever. 

Nevill? She shook her head sadly, puzzled and 
grieved at the instability of what one has called love. 
She had loved Nevill, deeply and truly, but that was 
before she knew anything about life at all. She would 
have been happy had she married him, had Nicholas 
Wayne remained the improbable dream of her disturbed 
childhood. Yes, she would have been very happy with 
Nevill; their life together would have been ideal. But 
now it seemed to her that while life in some tranquil 
aspects can be conceived as ideal, love never is; and 


OBLIGATIONS 


329 

ideality in life must clearly be impossible, since no life 
can be complete without love. But she would have had 
Nevill. They would have loved each other. . . . Oh, 
this confused thinking was tiresome! It led nowhere. 

One must begin at the beginning again; and the be¬ 
ginning was the cherry-tree swing. That had always 
been clear. And the end was out there in St.-Cloud 
under a tiny mound in the churchyard. To-morrow 
she would go out to St.-Cloud and see Lonny and 
Marietta again—and the little mound in the church¬ 
yard. She must pay all three a visit and take flowers 
with her. 

The zither players were warming up spiritedly to 
‘Toet and Peasant” by way of farewell. Chiostro 
ordered his bill, and Virginia, vaguely aware that a 
move was contemplated, twisted about to see what she 
had done with her gloves. Was she sitting on them; 
were they on the ground or the back of her chair? 
She got up, and then for a second stood quite still, her 
hands pressed to her heart as always when she was 
stirred deeply by emotion. Under the wide-brimmed 
hat her face gleamed like a white flower. 

She forgot her gloves, forgot the Chiostros, the 
people on the stage, the garden and everything. 
Rapidly she walked off across the dew-drenched grass. 
Chiostro started up, was about to call after her, when 
his wife jerked at his arm. 

‘‘Look!” Madame Chiostro whispered hoarsely, “it 's 
Nicholas Wayne come back. . . . No, papa, we must 


330 OBLIGATIONS 

leave them alone. She ’ll be all right. Jinny can take 
care of herself.” 

“But—^but—” Chiostro began to splutter in con¬ 
fusion. It was a tremendous surprise, Nicholas Wayne 
sitting there by himself not more than ten yards away, 
Nico in the flesh when most people were convinced 
that he was dead or a m 3 d;h. Did he know what had 
happened, that he was famous ? Well, he could n’t 
have helped knowing, if ever he looked at a paper or 
met a living soul he knew or who knew him. Yet one 
would like to tell him; one would like to ask, at least. 

“No—no!” The hand on Chiostro’s arm was pre¬ 
posterously possessive now. Whenever had mama 
dared to hold him like that, to dictate— “No—no!” 
she was saying. “You must not go. I know what’s 
in your mind, and neither Nico nor Jinny cares a fig 
about that now. She’s forgotten us, papa. She 
does n’t know we ’re here. Jinny’s strange some¬ 
times.” 

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Chiostro fumed. 
And then he added, “Anything’s strange that one 
does n’t understand.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


I T was undeniably true that Virginia had forgotten 
them. It happened completely, absolutely, in that 
moment of setting eyes upon Nicholas. She saw him 
sitting there forlornly detached from everything but 
herself as it seemed, and his detachment isolated her 
with him. He had been watching her this long time, 
while she had sat in apparent absorption of the pink 
tights and the zithers. 

“Nico,” she said softly. 

He stared at her, then hastily got to his feet. 

He was so absurd, Nico, in this act of perfunctory 
politeness. He thrust forward one of the little iron 
chairs. “Won’t you sit down?” (More absurd.) 
Virginia laughed, as she accepted the terse invitation. 
“You’re just the same,” she said. “I won’t be¬ 
lieve that you ran away and left me. For a little while 
I did believe it, and it was very unjust of me. . . . 
But, no—^you ’re not the same. Oh, don’t mind if I 
look at you—if I stare. I ’ve been so—so famished. 
She hitched her chair nearer to his. “With these 
witching lights it’s not easy to see. But are n’t you 
tanned, Nico—and more flesh on your bones? It 
seems to me—” 


331 


33 ^ 


OBLIGATIONS 


“And it seems to me that you Ve looking very well, 
too,’^ Nicholas cut in. “You Ve . . . prospered.” 

She sobered down, resting her elbows on the table, 
regarding him steadily. 

“There was something for me from daddy’s estate,” 
she said. “If you’d only have waited a few days 
everything would have been all right. Mr. Duncan 
wrote to me; I went over to London and saw him. 
Oh, Nico, he was so kind!” 

Whenever had Nicholas known Jinny without that 
word “kind” on her lips ? It brought back the familiar. 
According to her, everybody was kind—even Marietta 
Collins, who had betrayed her. 

“But was n’t it—did n’t you—Marietta told me you 
had a letter with money in it. I thought—” 

“Marietta? When did you see her? Oh, Nico, tell 
me!” 

Across the little iron table they reached out hands to 
each other and spoke together incoherently. The 
Chiostros, the gardens, Paris itself, faded away. They 
were alone in a peculiar world of their own, a queer, 
disjointed world flooded with broken sentences, words 
that fell abruptly only to be caught up and flung back; 
they groped together in this strange little world seek¬ 
ing to establish more firmly in their minds the common 
ground on which it seemed they really stood. 

“I went out to St.-Cloud as soon as I was able. Oh, 
Jinny, did you think I’d run away and—and left you 
like that?” 


OBLIGATIONS 


333 


‘T did n’t know. What could I think?” 

‘T remember. Lonny was to blame. I gave him a 
message for you, but he was drunk. He forgot it. I 
went to Paris to sell my picture, and then something 
happened to me.” 

He told her about that. 

** . . . And when I heard you ’d gone to London—• 
that letter they said had come for you—^well, I 
thought—” 

“That Nevill had sent it,” Virginia cut in. 

“Yes—I did.” 

“It was from Mr. Duncan, about poor daddy’s es¬ 
tate. If only you had waited, Nico—” 

^Waited? I? But—” 

“I’m sorry, dear. Of course—^you were ill, in the 
hospital. Oh, my poor Nico!” 

“I was a fool. I ought to have gone to Chiostro. 
He could have told me where to find you, but I thought 
—how could I help it?—that you didn’t want me. 
That—” 

“Where have you been all this time ?” 

“In Italy—in the south. I had that little bit of 
money. I wandered about trying to paint—trying to 
forget things. I thought I was free—of you. Jinny 
and it was my big chance. But I was n’t free. It 
was you, you, all the time. You got between me and 
what I was trying to do . . . and stopped it. 

“Nico—I ?” ^ 

“Yes, you. I shall never do anything now. It’s 


334 


OBLIGATIONS 


finished. When I sold that picture I was done. . . . 
I sold my soul. It all ended then.’’ 

‘"Nico!” She had almost forgotten that he was 
famous. She tried to tell him. “Nico, ninety thou¬ 
sand francs. . . . Georges Lampere ... he was 
rather kind about it. Have n’t you seen the papers ?” 

'‘The papers ? Georges Lampere ? No, what’s 
happened? I only got back to Paris this evening.” 

“Nico, it’s the most wonderful thing! Perhaps I’m 
a little to blame. You see I didn’t know you’d sold 
him the picture with permission to exhibit it as his 
own. And then Chiostro talked and I talked, and all 
the critics began to gossip, and I thought you were 
Georges Lampere, so I went to see him and he got 
frightened or something, only Papa Chiostro does n’t 
know I went to see him, and you must n’t tell him 
because I promised Lampere . . .” 

“Wait a minute . . . wait a minute!” Nicholas 
exclaimed. 

“Ninety thousand francs waiting for you, Nico. 
He sold it for a hundred thousand. And all the dealers 
falling over each other to get hold of you. Nico, your 
fortune is made—” 

“But wait a minute. I don’t understand. What has 
Lampere done?” 

“Confessed. Well, not exactly that. We ’re pre¬ 
tending that it was a put-up job to get you in on the 
ground floor, don’t you see? That he was to enter 
it under his own name, and then call it a grand spoof 


OBLIGATIONS 


335 


—that *s what he called it, Nico—and the committee 
was so fearfully sold, but some of the critics don’t 
believe it, and poor Monsieur Lampere has been hav¬ 
ing rather a bad time.” 

‘‘Good Lord, do you mean to say—” 

“That you ’re famous, Nico. Honestly, you are. 
Don’t you believe me? Papa Chiostro will tell you. 
Where are they ? Why, they were here a minute ago!” 

Virginia had just remembered them. Vanished? 
Was it only a minute ago? The waiters were be¬ 
ginning to stack up the iron chairs; most of the lights 
were out; the stage was forlornly dark and empty. 
They turned to leave the gardens. 

“I’ve got a little flat in the Rue Leonie,” Virginia 
said. “It’s rather poky and up four flights of stairs. 
But now that you’ve come back and we ’re so rich—” 

“Yes, we ’ll change that,” Nicholas said proudly. 

An open horse-drawn cab crawled along the curb, 
and the driver hailed them. Now clop-clop, over the 
rough cobbles of a narrow side street into the long 
Boul’ Mich’ and finally out again into another side 
street. It passed so quickly, with the night air caress¬ 
ing their faces, their hands touching softly, the warm 
contact of shoulder to shoulder. 

In the darkness, as they climbed the stairs, Virginia 
clung to his arm. 

“Oh, Nico, I do love you,” she whispered. ‘T'm so 
glad you’ve come back.” 


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